


Draco's Wish

by The_Angst_Chronicles



Series: Draco's Wish [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Auror Harry Potter, C'est la vie, Cold Weather, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Being an Asshole, Hot Chocolate, It's me so there's gonna be angst, Libraries, M/M, Not at the beginning though, Pretty Draco Malfoy, Sexual Assault, Skipping Meals, Smitten Harry Potter, Talented Draco Malfoy, This was supposed to be my take on a Christmas romcom, Torture, Veritaserum, but I missed Christmas so now it's just my take on a romcom I guess, but it's mostly fluff okay, but like, hidden identity, hunger, it doesn't play a huge part, just for a while, lots of other hot drinks too but that one especially idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Angst_Chronicles/pseuds/The_Angst_Chronicles
Summary: Draco does a good deed and is granted a wish - 12 days of anonymity in a world that hates him
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Draco's Wish [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079471
Comments: 40
Kudos: 152





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I tried new things with my writing this story. Hopefully it works out well.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> Chapter CW: Sexual assault

**December 4 th, 2007**

Draco wakes up to a day like any other in the dull mundanity that is his life. He opens his eyes to a barren ceiling with cracks and spots in the plaster, and sun shining in through the holes in his tatty curtains. His tiny apartment is freezing, containing neither a fireplace nor a built-in heating charm. Winter is Draco’s least favourite time of the year; the cold seeps into his bones and threatens to freeze them still for eternity.

There is no desire to curl up under his cover, either for warmth or for more sleep – his single blanket is too threadbare to offer any meaningful relief from the cold, and the two minutes of heat that his shower can manage is a much better option. Draco gets out of bed quickly and goes about his morning routine of a quick shower, his bath a race against the limited hot water. He gets out, dries off as quickly as he can before the water on his body freezes in he cold air of the apartment, and pulls on his baggy oversized clothes. He dresses fully, fingers shaking as he does up his ragged winter coat and slips on his holey gloves. Only once he’s dressed does he go back to brush his teeth, carefully avoiding getting anything on his clothes.

He glances over at his ‘kitchen’ – a battered old stove that only works half the time, a tiny ice box, and a folding table as a counter – but the only food he has left is a half-frozen loaf of bread. He weighs the effort of toasting some on the stove, but there’s no guarantee that it will turn on and he’s has limited time before he is due at work. Besides, he’d had breakfast yesterday – eating again so soon would be wasteful.

Draco slips his money pouch into his boot and gives his apartment a quick once over, to double-check that he hasn’t left anything behind, then slips out into the dank hallway. He pulls his door closed firmly, jamming it as much as he can to assuage the fact that it doesn’t lock. It’s expected that the resident will use a locking charm, but Draco doesn’t have a wand. His had been lost to Potter and there was no-one willing to sell him another. When his mother died, he’d been too caught up in grief to consider asking to keep her wand and it had been buried with her. So now he’s here, unable to lock his door or heat his apartment.

Draco shakes his head, forcibly banishing the thought. There’s no use dwelling on things that he cannot change. He tugs his hood up over his head and turns, making his way downstairs into the lobby, and out into Knockturn Alley. It’s a cold day, and blustering, and Draco fights the wind as he makes his way down the street. It stings at the skin it finds through the holes in his gloves and lifts the ends of his coat. Draco sticks his hands into his pockets with a huff, lowering his head against the tiny flakes of snow blasting against his face in tiny pinpricks.

Then, the wind catches his hood and whips it away from his head. Draco panics, grabbing at the fabric to pull it back over his head, but it’s too late. From behind, he hears a snarl of “Filth!”, and then hands are suddenly shoving him roughly from behind. Draco yelps, flinging out his hands to catch himself as he lands hard against the cold cobblestones.

He feels his gloves tearing further, palms scraping against harsh stone. Draco can’t help his cry of pain. He turns, looking wildly over his shoulder, but nobody is looking at him. With an inhaled hiss, he pulls himself to his feet and double-checks that his hood is back up before bringing his hands up for inspection. As he suspected, the gloves have ripped and the scrape against the ground has broken through the skin, drawing bloody scratches across his palms.

He flexes his hands, biting back a whimper at the pain it brings. There’s nothing he can do about it now, though, so he steels himself and braces against the wind, leaving his hands to get blasted so that he can hold on to his hood and prevent it from being blown off again.

Thankfully, it is not too much further to his job and he’s soon slipping into the back door of Forsythe’s Potions and Apothecary. He releases a relieved breath as a wave of warm air hits him, and takes a moment to stand and relish the feeling of comfort it brings. The sting in his palm makes itself known again after another moment, and Draco heaves a sigh.

He slips off his coat and gloves and hangs them on a hook on the back wall. Then he pauses, taking a moment to lean his head against the wall – he is exhausted already though the day has just begun - before turning and going up to the door separating the backroom from the front of store. He stops again there and draws a deep, fortifying breath, steeling himself – facing his boss is never a pleasant ordeal – before he raises a hand to rap sharply on the door.

There’s a moment of waiting, then the door is yanked open and Draco is face to face with his boss – Edgar Forsythe Charles, a short, squat, beady-eyed man with a pencil thin moustache and oil-slicked black hair. “Malfoy,” he barks. “What have I told you about disturbing me?”

“My apologies Mr. Forsythe,” Draco says, keeping his tone deferent. He holds up his hands, displaying his bloodied palms. “I don’t want to handle the ingredients with bloodied hands, so I was hoping you could heal them?”

Forsythe scowls deeply. “Do you think this is St-bloody-Mungoes?” He snaps. “I’m not your personal servant Malfoy. You can bloody well deal with this shit yourself!” Draco stares into his reddened face, and swallows down his frustration.

“If I have to go out and buy a healing potion it will take up time,” he says reasonably. “Surely it would be better to just –“

“Don’t tell me what’s best!” Bellows Forsythe. He steps forward menacingly, and Draco can’t help his own step back. “Your inability to cast a simple healing charm is not my problem Malfoy. Deal with this.” His face twists into a mean sneer. “And don’t think I’m going to pay you for any time you miss,” he adds in a hiss.

“Yes sir,” Draco grits out, digging his nails into his own injured palms and vividly imagining hexing Forsythe to bits.

Forsythe gives an oily smirk. “Get to it then,” he says, “and don’t think of shirking out. If you’re not back by noon you’re fired.” Then he sweeps off back into the front room, leaving Draco standing there, trembling with anger.

How he wishes he could just tell Forsythe what for and leave this ignominious job behind, but the truth is that he’s lucky to have it. When he’d been released from Azkaban, he’d found a world that had no place for him – he was hated from both sides, both for being a Death Eater and for not being a committed enough one. He’d been at wits end, on the brink of starvation, when he’d found Forsythe. The old miser had thankfully been more enticed by the idea of exploitable labour than turned off by Draco’s identity. Forsythe may hate him, treat him like shit, and underpay him, but he’d given him the job and that was more than Draco can say of anyone else.

So, he swallows his anger and turns with a sigh to return to the chilly street. With the requirement to return by noon, there is no time to go to St. Mungo’s, and neither is there a guarantee that he’ll be seen there. That depends on who’s in front when he goes in, and which Healer he ends up with.

Nor can he go to most of the nearby potions shop, Forsythe’s own included. Most sellers charge him exponentially more than the items actually cost, and Forsythe delights himself being among them.

No, there is only once place that he can go – the only shop that will sell to him at only moderately extorted prices, and one of Draco’s least favourite place to be.

The trudge to the shop is long, as it’s all the way at the other end of Knockturn right on the corner of Diagon. Draco spends the whole walk with his head down, hands thankfully tucked in his pockets as the wind is to his back, steeling himself for the upcoming unpleasantry.

The shop is not very large – tall, narrow, and unassuming with a faded sign above the entrance that declares it _Ugbert’s Emporium._ Draco pushes inside, the bells above the door tinkling to announce his arrival, and steps into a dark room that is empty of another human presence.

A shout of “I’ll be right with you!” echoes from the back room, and Draco takes a steadying breath and walks up to the counter. The curtain to the back room is pushed aside and the shop’s proprietor enters. He is a long, spindly man with rich, thick chestnut hair and a well-groomed beard. His dark, sunken eyes dart to meet Draco’s, and a greasy smile crosses his face, revealing several gold teeth.

“Little Malfoy,” he says in an unctuous voice. “What a pleasure to see you.”

“Ugbert.” Returns Draco, keeping his voice as bland as possible. “I require a healing potion.”

Ugbert steps closer, moving around the counter so that he can see Draco fully. “Aww, you poor thing. Are you hurt?” He asks, reaching for Draco’s face.

Draco digs his nails into his own bloodied palm and forces down his disgust. “It is just a scratch. Nothing to worry about,” he answers shortly.

Ugbert is not dissuaded by his aloofness. “Good, good,” he says instead, running his knuckles down Draco’s cheek. Draco twitches, but resists pulling away. He’s learnt that lesson, knows what is expected of him here if he is to get anything he’s looking for.

Ugbert pulls him in closer, a hand sliding down Draco’s torso and hip to cup his behind. Draco raises his chin, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “The potion, Ugbert.” He reminds him. Ugbert leers at him.

“I will need to see the injuries, so that I may determine which potion will be best,” he says. His hands are now massaging at Draco’s ass, and Draco shudders in revulsion.

“If you show me your stock, I can pick out what I need,” he tries.

Ugbert chuckles. “I don’t think so,” he breathes right against Draco’s ear, grinding his hips forward. Draco feels his erection pressing against him and quivers. He quickly brings his hands up and turns his palms to Ugbert.

“Here. It’s just scratches, as I’ve said,” he says. Ugbert pulls back, looking down at his palms. He looks almost disappointed as he turns away.

“Very well, let me check my inventory,” he says, stepping around the counter. Draco waits impatiently as he ducks down and inspects the wears in the lower shelves. “I can sell you a Minor Wiggenweld for twelve Galleons,” he eventually offers, straightening up with the bottle of potion in hand.

Draco stares at him in disbelief. “A Minor Wiggenweld? That’s overkill Ugbert. Don’t you have a simple Healing Potion?”

“I might have one at home,” Ugbert leers, and Draco grimaces in disgust. It’s way too much money, a huge chunk of his salary that will leave his food budget for the foreseeable future considerably lowered, but –

“I’ll take it,” he says hurriedly, pulling his coin pouch from his boot. He counts out twelve Galleons, inwardly wincing at the amount as he places them onto the counter.

Ugbert slides over the potion bottle and collects his Galleons. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he says with his sleazy smile.

“Likewise,” Draco answers stiffly, collecting his potion and money pouch to his coat pocket. He tugs his hood over his head and hurries back out into the street, relieved to be away from the old pervert.

He makes it back to work with no incident, and drinks just a single sip of the potion – enough to heal his scraped palms. He looks at the expensive and mostly full bottle dejectedly. What a waste of money. He tries to look at the bright side – at the very least he will have a stock of healing potion at home now – but it doesn’t make him feel much better.

With a sigh, Draco puts away the potion into the pocket of his coat and goes to wash his hands in the little sink in the corner. He stops by the door to the front room, rapping on it sharply once to alert Forsythe that he’s back. He waits for the answering thump – Forsythe’s display of annoyance that he’s being disturbed, but now he can’t pretend he doesn’t know that Draco’s back and withhold pay – before making his way over to his desk beside which a pile of boxes sits waiting. It’s a new shipment of ingredients for him to sort and package and, with a put-upon groan, Draco pulls on his Nugskin gloves and gets to work.

The work requires practically no mental input, and Draco finds his mind wondering as he counts and packs ingredients. In the front room, Forsythe has the wireless playing as he often does. Draco hums along to the muffled melodies he can hear through the door. Customers come in sometimes, but they rarely provide interesting conversation.

Draco listens to their questions though, mentally criticizing where Forsythe’s answers could be improved, either with the potions he suggests for their issues or – more rarely – the brewing advice he gives for potions.

By late afternoon, Draco has finished sorting through the new shipment and moves on to preparing the ingredients Forsythe with need for the list of potions he’s preparing for tomorrow. There is a lull from the front of house, no customers having come in for the past forty or so minutes. The wireless fills the silence, now into a newscast about the case that Potter and Granger have presented to the Wizengamot.

The story has been on the wireless often in the past few months. The pair have been championing house-elf rights, or some such, and their case has now apparently been presented and the Wizengamot is in discussion. The witch reporting on the news briefly recaps Potter and Granger’s journey on this objective this far, and then Potter is brought on for an interview. His voice is rich and warm, and still sends shivers down Draco’s spine, as he talks about how he is confident that the Wizengamot will make the right decision.

Then a customer comes in and demands that Forsythe change the channel. She and Forsythe begin wanking each other off about how very insulted they are about Saintly Potter trying to take away their servants. Draco rolls his eyes, but he can’t help feeling a little relieved that they’ve changed the channel. It’s hard for him to hear Potter’s voice – the feeling it brings up is mostly shame at how low he’s fallen while Potter is a shining beacon for the wizarding world, but there’s also the lingering feeling of desire that thoughts of Potter always arise.

The new channel is recapping this weeks Quidditch scores, and Draco half listens as he ferries ingredients over to the cauldrons, each with their own long table on which Draco sets the ingredients for each potion in the order they’re needed. It seems it’s been a good week for the Falcons and, predictably, Forsythe soon starts gloating.

“I always knew the Falcons had potential!” He proclaims loudly. “They just needed the right push. Good job that new bird joined and whipped them into shape.” Draco rolls his eyes. The ‘new bird’ – Ginny Weasley – has been with the team for over three years now. The customer opines that the Magpies are going to take back the title, and Draco tunes out the conversation as light bickering ensues.

Finished with the ingredient prep, he tidies the work area, sweeps and mops the floors, and locks up the ingredient cases. As he’s finishing up, he hears the customer leave and Forsythe locking up behind him. He pokes his head into the front room and calls “I’ll be off then Mr. Forsythe!”.

Forsythe glares at him and snaps “Just go! How many times have I told you not to stick your pointy little nose into my store?”

Draco pulls his head back and closes the door, rolling his eyes. It’s not as if a customer will see him now that the store’s closed, so he doesn’t bother heeding Forsythe’s request. It’s in his best interest to ensure that Forsythe can’t pretend that Draco’s ducked out early.

He finds that it’s warmed up somewhat when he steps outside, so he takes his time walking back to his apartment, enjoying the fresh crisp air. He takes a little too long, though, because by the time he gets to his apartment Mrs. Doxley, his next-door, has also arrived home and is standing in her doorway arguing with her husband as she does every day.

Draco groans inwardly as he sees her, his steps faltering a moment before picking back up in resignation. Mrs. Doxely looks up and sees him, her face twisting in disgust. “If It isn’t Lucius’ boy,” she spits. “It’s your father’s fault I’m living in this shithole you know!”

So she’s told him every time she’s seen him, although he has yet to learn what, exactly, his father had done to cause her predicament. He likely isn’t going to learn it this time either. “I’m sorry Mrs. Doxley,” is all he says, not wanting to antagonize her further. She leans close and spits at his face in response, and Draco doesn’t quite duck out of the way in time.

He does avoid the kick, though, and she glowers at him before storming into her apartment. Grimacing in disgust, Draco lets himself into his own apartment and tiredly goes to the bathroom and scrubs his face clean. Then he returns to the main room to slump onto the bed, feeling properly downtrodden.

His life really has gone to shite, and it’s not as though he doesn’t deserve it but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. He thinks about his past self, of that carefree, spoilt child that he’d been, and mourns for him. He wishes he could go back to that time and stay there, suspended in cruel ignorance forever. Some days, he wishes he’d died at the Battle of Hogwarts, gotten caught up in the Fiendfyre after all or perhaps been caught by a stray curse on the battlefield, or sentenced to death by the Ministry. Surely it would be preferable to struggling to eke out the miserable existence he has now.

But he hadn’t died, he is here, and so live he will. Draco forces himself to his feet, putting his potion and money pouch on his bedside crate before changing into his pyjamas and washing his clothes for the next day.

**December 8 th, 2007**

“I’ll be heading out now Mr. Forsythe,” Draco calls, poking his head out into the front of the store.

Forsythe whips around. “No, you won’t,” he snaps. Draco stiffens, half expecting a reprimand, but Forsythe just says “I’ve got an appointment to make. You’ll have to close up front too.” He starts to leave, then pauses and turns to glare at Draco. “Don’t mess anything up or it’s coming out of your salary.” He barks, and then he’s gone.

Draco sighs but obligingly steps into the front room. He’s not allowed here often – Forsythe doesn’t want customers seeing him and doesn’t half trust him besides - but the man has always been self-serving first. If it’s in his best interest to let Draco close the front he will do so, trust or not. Draco locks up the cases in the front as well, sweeps and mops these floors, and wipes down the windows, door, and case-fronts. He knows that Forsythe doesn’t do all of this daily, but it’s expected when Draco’s the one closing the front. He doesn’t mind, and he works languidly – he has nowhere to be after all, and the shop is warm.

He locks the front door then returns to the front counter to count the till and put the money into the safe under the counter. This is the special Draco-safe, of course, here for the specific case of Draco closing the front. He isn’t to know the combination of the actual safe, or even it’s location. This doesn’t bother him though – the less he knows, the less Forsythe can blame him for if there ever is a robbery.

With the money put away for the night, he turns to his final task of wiping down the counter, humming a tune that had been playing on the wireless earlier as he works. He picks up a crumpled-up bag that Forsythe had left on the corner, expecting it to be garbage, but to his surprise he finds that there is some weight to it. Confused, he peers inside and finds that Forsythe has discarded a pair of bagels.

Draco can’t believe his luck. Fresh bagels? All he has to look forward to at home is frozen bread – he could jump for excitement at this find. He carries the bag to the back room and tucks it carefully into his coat pocket before returning to the front and double-checking that everything is in order. Seeing nothing out of place, he shuts off the lamps and returns to the back, donning his coat and gloves and stepping out into the Alley, locking the door firmly behind him.

It’ s a cold evening, but not windy. Draco briefly considers the thought of going back to his apartment, but quickly discards it. He’s tired of looking at those four cracked walls, and it’s not as if the apartment will be any warmer than out here. He’s been trying to learn wandless heating charms, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of them yet.

Instead, he sticks his hand in his pockets and walks down to the brick wall at the dead-end of Knockturn, pushing on the slightly off-colour brick near his left kneecap to open the portal to Muggle London.

The Knockturn entrance is not quite as nice as the Diagon entrance. This way opens out to a rundown little street with cracks in the road, small houses with chain-linked fences, a brightly lit little corner shop, and a small park that was scarcely more than some grass and three trees. Nevertheless, Draco makes a beeline for the park, enjoying spending some time in the outdoors. It’s peaceful and serene here, the world blanketed by a layer of snow that seemed to insulate him, making it feel like he’s the only person in the world.

In moments like this, Draco can forget who he is and just exist.

He opens his eyes after a moment, sighing into the calm of the night as his stomach rumbles restlessly. He smiles slightly. He’ll have something better than stale toast tonight at least.

Turning, Draco makes his way to the only bench in the park so that he can sit and eat his supper. When he gets there, however, he finds that it is not empty for the first time in all the years he’s been coming to this park. There, on the bench, are a woman and a little girl, huddled together and shivering under a blanket. They are gaunt in a way that Draco recognizes, that he’s seen in the mirror during the bad months, and they’re clearly no more equipped for winter than Draco in his threadbare coat.

The woman looks up and catches sight of Draco. “Excuse me,” she rasps. “do you have any money for food? Please, we haven’t eaten in days!”

Draco hesitates. He has no muggle money on him, only the bag of bagels in his pocket, and he doesn’t want to give that over – he rarely gets much to eat and something so fresh is a treat. He has the last of his frozen bread at home, yes, but with the expensive purchase of the potion earlier he is going to have to reduce his food spending for the next little while. He has so little – surely the plight of these people shouldn’t be his to reduce?

He opens his mouth, about to tell her “No, sorry,” but something in her eyes stops him. It’s the desperation that he sees, something he has experienced so often in his own life. How often has he wished somebody would just give him a helping hand? Now it appears that he’s in the position to give the helping hand. He has little, but he has enough to help.

Draco curses quietly, but stops and turns to her. “Here,” he says brusquely, shoving the bag of bagels at her. He doesn’t wait for her thanks – he doesn’t want it, not really. She calls it after his back anyway, and the sincere gratitude in it gives him pause. Somehow, he doesn’t feel too bad, even as he goes home and toasts the last of his frozen bread.

The night is thankfully not too cold still as he tucks himself in for bed, and he has a deep, uninterrupted sleep. The dream that comes to him is strange – he’s alone in a black place, or at least seems to be alone. His instincts ping though, with the feeling that he’s being watched.

“Hello?” He calls out, turning in a circle. “Is someone there?”

Before him, a figure blinks into existence. It at once looks human and not, bright and glowing with a shifting iridescence that makes it impossible to place. Draco startles and stumbles backward.

“Who are you?” He asks.

The presence answers, but not verbally. Its words seem to reverberate all around him, and within Draco’s own head. _“I am a wish,”_ it says, “ _made by a child in her hour of need. You have fulfilled that wish. We thank your generosity Draco Malfoy.”_

Draco blinks. A wish made manifest – a child’s tale from his bedtime stories. Merlin, he’s done one good deed and now his subconscious is dragging up a fairy-tale reward for his dreams. He rolls his eyes at himself.

“Great,” he says, not wanting to entertain this but also not wanting to waste time arguing with dreamt-up wish magic. “What are you here for then?”

 _“A wish granted is a wish given,”_ answers the light. It floats closer. “ _And your wish, Draco Malfoy, shall be anonymity. Twelve days, I grant you. During this time, you shall be recognized not, even by those looking plain upon your face. After this time, memories made of you shall not be connected to you unless the recaller lays eyes upon you. This you are given.”_

Then the light grows, bright and brighter still, until Draco is surrounded by white.


	2. Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco awakes from his strange dream and, with nothing to do on his first day of vacation, secludes himself in his room. But when an accident forces him to go outside, he finds that people are acting strangely toward him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I wrote this in present tense, I really don't. Please forgive any slips back to past tense lol

**December 9 th , 2007**

Draco wakes up with the dream replaying vividly in his mind. He lies there for a moment, imagining that it were real. Anonymity – his subconscious was not far off base on that one. What he wouldn’t give for that.

Then he rolls his eyes at himself. Wishing is for children, and all it could do is drive home how much he doesn’t have. Sighing, he pushes himself out of bed.

It’s a Sunday, which means the shop would be closed anyway, but it’s also the first day of Forsythe’s yearly vacation which means that Draco has almost two weeks of nothing to do but rattling around his apartment. He wouldn’t mind it so much except for the fact that it’s winter, which means that it’s cold.

Today is particularly freezing in fact. Draco showers for the couple of minutes of warmth he can steal, then bundles up in all of his outdoor clothes. He fishes out the one book he has – a sappy romance novel that he’d found under the bed when he’d moved in – and settles himself on the bed, wrapped in his blanket, to read it for the umpteenth time.

The day only gets colder, however, and once he’s shivering so hard that the words in the book are impossible to make out, Draco gives in. He sets the book aside and tugs off his gloves with a sigh, furrowing his brow in concentration as he feels for the magic deep inside himself. It takes a moment to corral it and draw it out, doing his best to shape it as he whispers the incantation.

The temperature rises slightly, not enough that it’s warm but enough that he’s not freezing. Draco sighs, drained. Wandless magic is considered difficult at the best of times, and he’s trying to muddle through this with no guidance – the result has proven inconsistent and tiring.

And hunger-inducing. Draco patters over to the corner of the apartment designated as the kitchen, but he has no food left. Just as well – he’d eaten yesterday after all; he knows that he shouldn’t waste his food eating today also.

With a put-upon sigh, Draco throws himself dramatically onto his bed. He lays there a moment, staring blankly at the ceiling as he tries to ignore the hunger pangs striking at his stomach. Eventually he pulls out the novel again, flicking through it restlessly. It’s not the kind of story he would have normally picked up, but the kid in his heart who still yearns for a happy ending resonates with the tale of the heroine, beating her situation against all odds and getting the man of her dreams.

He sighs, setting the book down on his chest. There is no chance of that for him – Draco is not the sort of man that someone looks at and falls in love with. After all, he has neither the sparkling personality nor the ‘great, perfectly shaped tits’ that the book attributes the heroine’s desirability to.

Draco snorts, then shivers. The warming charm is waning already, and the frigid air is starting to seep in through the leaky window. He curses under his breath, wishing not for the first time that Forsythe would let him mind the shop while he was away. He’s never been good with the cold.

He doesn’t want to try casting windlessly again – he’s already tired from doing it once and casting tired is dangerous. Especially with a spell dealing with heat; the potential to start fires is high. It really is freezing, though, and no amount of bundling himself in whatever he has available is helping.

When his skin starts to sting from it and shivers wrack his body, Draco gives in and pushes himself to his feet. A glance to the crate at his bedside confirms that he has an extinguisher – a charmed orb designed for Squibs, that puts out fires when broken – so he steadies himself to try again.

His first two attempts fizzle out, no warmth kissing his skin but no disaster either. But at his third try, he feels his magic well up in response to his coaxing. He breathes a shaky sigh as he focuses past his exhaustion, pulling and shaping at his magic as he speaks out the incantation.

His magic swells out into the room, gently caressing his skin with heat. Then it surges, blasting through his fumbling attempts to keep a hold on it and leaping out into the room. Draco stumbles back with a cry, falling back against the wall as the curtains across the room erupt into flames.

A thump sounds against the wall behind him, and Draco knocks his fist back before grabbing his extinguisher. He wastes no time throwing it against the curtains where it shatters with a cloud of magic that douses the fire, leaving the already-tattered curtains with even more holes singed through them.

Draco collapses back against his bed with a tired sigh, dropping his head into his hand. Thankfully the botched charm had still managed to warm the room back to a slight chill before it escaped his control. He’s used up his final extinguisher, however, which will be a problem once the charm inevitably wears away. He daren’t recast without it. Getting another, however, means visiting bloody Ugbert.

It’s so tempting, in the mildly warmed room, to just leave it. Though his better sense tells him otherwise, it’s easy to imagine that this time the warming charm will hold, and he won’t need to go out. But he can’t risk it – Ugbert doesn’t keep late hours, and if this day has been any indication then the night will be frigid. If his warming charm wears off in the middle of the night, he may just freeze to death, or else burn his room down trying to warm it.

Resigning himself to facing the perverted creep, Draco grabs his money sack from his crate and counts out the familiar cost. One Galleon and thirteen Knuts – he grimaces at the steep price. He hadn’t thought this through – thanks to Forsythe he’s already had to eat into his funds buying that wretched potion. Trying to cast a warming charm when he was down to his last extinguisher had been careless – it had just been so terribly cold.

Giving in to that weakness, however, means that his groceries for the week is going to be a loaf of bread again. “Nice work, you thrice-cursed idiot,” he mutters to himself, pocketing the coins.

In deference to the cold he has most of his outerwear on already – only the gloves are missing, with him having taken them off to cast the charm. He tugs them back on, frowning down at the new holes in the palm area. They won’t take much more damage before he is forced to replace them.

He sighs, resolving to be very careful about hiding his identity on his way over. There is no way that he can afford new gloves this week too. So, he tugs his ratty hood as far down over his face as he can and keeps his head down, watching only his feet as he makes his way up Knockturn.

Luckily, nobody looks twice at him and he makes it to his destination with no incident. Here, even the frigid air can’t stop him from hesitating at the prospect of facing Ugbert. He takes a moment to steel himself, tamping down the urge to just turn and go back, before lifting his chin slightly and pushing open the door.

He steps into the warm, dimly lit store, and the bell above his head chimes his arrival. “I’ll be right with you,” comes Ugbert’s familiar call from the back room. Draco reluctantly draws closer to the counter, schooling his features into nonchalance as the curtain is drawn aside.

Ugbert scowls at him. “No hoods in my store,” he snaps, gesturing sharply at a sign beside the counter. Draco grimaces, but tugs off his hood and scowls back at Ugbert.

The man’s glower slips away, replaced by a creepy grin. “Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” He purrs. “What can I do for you?”

Draco blinks, surprised and wrongfooted. What is Ugbert playing at? He hesitates a moment, before deciding not to question it and playing along. “Two extinguishers please,” he requests.

Ugbert leers. “Need someone to tame your fire darling?” He asks. But he doesn’t come around the counter or try to touch Draco. He just retrieves the extinguishers and sets them on the counter. “That’ll be 8 Sickles and 18 Knuts,” he says.

Draco is already fishing his money out of his picket when he registers the price and freezes. Not only is Ugbert not trying to molest him, he’s also charging regular price? He looks up at the other man, jaw slack in surprise.

“What’s the matter doll?” Ugbert asks, leaning his elbow on the counter. Draco shakes himself briskly, deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he hurriedly hands over the Galleon. He gets a handful of change in return and leaves quickly before Ugbert can change his mind.

He leaves in such a hurry that it’s only a few steps into Knockturn that he remembers his hood. He tugs it over his hair quickly, looking around at the passersby with a fearful twist in his stomach, bracing for the attacks from anyone who’s recognized him. But nobody seems to have noticed, and nobody gives him a second look.

Head spinning in confusion, Draco quickly retreats back down Knockturn to the relative safety of his chilly apartment. He sits heavily on his rickety old bed and fishes out the contents of his pockets, staring in disbelief at the handful of coins in his hand. What had just happened there? He’d assumed Ugbert was just messing with him – the man has to have recognized him, surely he wouldn’t talk to any old customer off the street like that – but even when he’d gone out without his hood on, none of the people walking by had recognized him.

Unbidden, the memory of his dream from last night comes to him. Anonymity – not to be recognized even by those who look plain upon his face.

But no. Draco shakes his head. That is child’s talk. There is no such thing as wish magic. Probably, he’d just overexerted himself casting that last healing charm, and he’s actually sleeping right now and having a particularly realistic dream. Frowning, Draco reaches down and pinches his inner elbow. “Ouch”, he hisses – no, that hurts, he probably isn’t dreaming. Perhaps he’d just stepped into the Alley at a time where everyone passing by just happened not to know of him or his role in the war? Ugbert must have had some other reason not to try to grope Draco, or extort him for extra coin – maybe there had been an inspector in the back room or- or-

Abruptly, there’s a loud shriek from out in the hallway, followed by the now familiar sound of Mrs. Doxley shrieking at her husband about his slovenly ways. Possessed by a strange whim, Draco shoots to his feet and throws open his apartment door. It bounces off the wall with a bang, attracting Mrs. Doxley’s attention immediately.

She whips around and stares at him, wide-eyed. “Look Doris, you’re disturbing the neighbours!” Barks a squat, unkept man standing just inside her doorway.

Mrs. Doxley shoots him a furious glare and then glances back at Draco, blankly, as though he’s a perfect stranger. “Sorry,” she sniffs, and then stalks into her own apartment. The door slams shut behind her, and then the argument continues, muffled now behind an Imperturbable Charm.

Draco stares at the closed door in shock, then slowly returns to his own apartment, closing the door and walking over to the bathroom with its old, chipped mirror. His own face looks back at him, wide-eyed and gaunt but unmistakable. Draco sits heavily on the top of his toilet as the implication sinks it.

It hadn’t been a dream. He really is anonymous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray, Draco can go out without repercussions!
> 
> Twitter: @AngstChronicles  
> Tumblr: the-angst-chronicles  
> FF.NET: The-Angst-Chronicles


	3. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco exercises his new found freedom a little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

**December 10 th , 2007**

Draco wakes to the morning sun streaming through his useless curtains and throwing bright spots across his face. He curses thoroughly but, as that does nothing to dissuade it, fumbles his way to a sitting position and opens his eyes to find himself fully clothed on his bed. He’s not under the covers either, so he assumes that he’d exhausted himself with heating charms the night prior and passed out without meaning to.

He sits up with a groan, the beginnings of an exhaustion headache drumming lightly at his temples. A moment bemoaning his lack of tea, before he drags himself over to the sink and pours himself a glass of water.

It’s ice cold, and Draco shudders as he sets the glass back down. His stomach chooses that moment to emit a sharp pang of hunger, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten the day before. His kitchen remains frustratingly devoid of food, though, which means he’ll have to make a grocery run.

Draco likes grocery runs, all things considered – it’s something to do other than wasting away in his apartment, and the store will be heated at least. That thought puts him in a pleasant mood as he takes the few steps across the room to the crate at his bedside, where he picks up his money sack and fishes out the measly remainder of his food budget for this period. Just four Sickles. With a dejected sigh, he drops them into the pocket of his coat, where they clink against something.

Confused, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out considerably more coin than he’s just put in. It takes a moment for it to click, but then the events of yesterday come rushing back.

Draco nearly drops the money in his haste to turn and take another look at the crate – and yes, there are the two extinguishers, fresh from Ugbert’s. Merlin, all that wish-magic babble hadn’t been a dream! It is almost unbelievable, but Draco can’t deny what’s right in front of him.

Taking a shaky breath, he pockets his money again and steps out into the hallway. It’s just past eight in the morning, and he can hear people moving around their apartments through the thin walls. Next-door is still muffled behind the Imperturbable Charm.

The mail room is empty when he enters it. It’s a little room, barely large enough for two people to stand in, and luckily the owl is in. Draco retrieves a parchment form from the fourth bin – a Gringotts currency exchange form – and jots in his name and the amount of money requested. He folds it into an envelope with his coins; normally one would just fill in the form and have the money taken from their Gringotts account, but Draco no longer keeps one. Neither his job nor his housing is on record and are thus paid in Sickles and Galleons, of which he has little to spare. He probably can’t even afford the cost of maintaining an account.

He smooths over the envelope, frowning at the thought. How his father must be turning in his grave to see Draco now – his only son, the heir to the proud Malfoy family. Draco snorts and shakes his head, sealing the envelope and tying it to the owl’s leg. That’s old news. There is no use dwelling in the past.

He drops a Knut into the pouch on the owl’s other leg. “Gringotts, Department of Exchanges please,” he instructs. The owl hoots a soft affirmative, allowing him to gently stroke its head, before it takes off through the open window. Draco smiles wanly. He likes this owl. It’s one of the few living things around that doesn’t look at him like dung underfoot.

Gringotts will take some time – either the goblins dislike him, or else they are simply very busy, he has no way to know – so he returns to his room and strips off his clothes. Shivering against the cold air, he quickly starts up a shower and steps into the hot water with a grateful sigh. He cleans himself quickly, and then, after a moment’s consideration, lathers soap through his hair. His younger self would surely have died at the very idea, and Draco inanely mourns the silky perfection his hair used to be. He shakes himself of the sentiment and dries off roughly with his scratchy towel before dressing in yesterday’s clothes. Another nail for the coffin of his past life.

It’s still cold, and his wet hair makes him even colder, but he has two extinguishers and he’s feeling optimistic, so he tentatively holds his hand to his head and concentrates. The Hot Air Charm is never strong when he manages to cast it, but it’s not as though he wants to blast steaming hot air directly at his head anyhow. Still, he’s more worried trying to dry his hair like this than he is trying to warm his apartment – if his magic escapes his control, he’s at risk of setting his own hair on fire. Just another reason to hate this season as far as he’s concerned. Draco isn’t about to go through the whole of winter without washing his hair, however – even he has limits. So, he risks self-combusting every now and again.

His magic reacts well today, leaping to his command. It tries to expand out of his control, but he clamps down on it firmly and directs it in a warm stream that heats his face and ruffles the fine strands of his hair.

He emerges from his bathroom just as a knocking sounds from his little window. Draco looks over to see a Gringotts owl hovering outside, a little pouch tied to its leg. He hurries over, not wanting the poor creature out in the cold for longer than necessary, and struggles to prise the sticky window open.

The owl swoops in immediately, offering him its leg while darting looks around his shabby little apartment. “Sorry, I don’t have any treats for you,” Draco apologizes as he unties the satchel. The owl hoots disapprovingly, but thankfully it’s too well-trained to peck at him. Raptor beaks are sharp, and he doesn’t fancy having bloodied fingers.

The owl turns its back on him as soon as he has the pouch, flaring its wings and tail in a dramatic display of disdain, that Draco amusedly appreciates, before it flies out the window. He wrestles it shut again, shivering slightly from the cold wind.

Peering into the bag reveals the familiar shape of Muggle paper and coins, and a little card on which the goblins will have written a summary of the exchange. The goblins have yet to miscalculate the exchange, but Draco can’t find it in himself to trust anyone these days so he tugs out the little card and the money, counting to ensure that it’s correct.

Satisfied, he tosses the card into his little bin and tucks the money back into the pouch, pocketing the lot before heading out of the rundown apartment complex. He stops on the street just outside, taking a deep breath before deliberately lowering his hood. He waits there a moment, tensed, but nobody pays him any mind.

Draco is so giddy at the realisation that he laughs out loud. He does attract a few suspicious looks then, but he can’t bring himself to be bothered by it. For the first time in years, he can walk down the street without fear.

He’s so thrilled that he doesn’t pull his hood back up, even as the wind batters his face and chills his ears, all the way down Knockturn to the dead-end wall that takes him to Muggle London. He practically down the familiar street to the little corner shop.

Draco likes this shop. It’s warm, and nobody looks at him askance here so long as he actually buys something. Even the strange buzzing that always seemed to accompany Muggle lights and the humming from the iceboxes brings a strange comfort.

He makes his way to a familiar isle, picking out a loaf of bread from the many available. Then he turns and surveys the store, pondering what he should spend the extra bit of money he’d left Ugbert’s with yesterday on. It’s not a lot more money, but it’s enough for him to pick up a small square of cheese that he can use for sandwiches and, on a whim, a packet of those flavoured noodles that can be boiled.

He carries the items up to the counter, where a bored-looking teenager grunts “Hi there,” at him. It’s barely anything, but it’s neither aggressive nor flirtatious and Draco craves these small moments of human interaction.

“Hello,” he replies. He maybe sounds a bit too eager to talk to her, because the girl gives him a strange look as she takes his items and begins ringing them up. Draco doesn’t say any more, just watches curiously as she enters his purchases into her glowing till. From somewhere up in the ceiling, a wireless plays a Muggle tune that he doesn’t recognize.

“ _What do I care if icicles form,” croons a male voice, “I’ve got my love to keep me warm.”_ It tugs a bit at Draco’s mood. He hates winter, and he hates Christmas.

The girl must catch his frown, as she rolls her eyes and shares a conspiratorial look with him. “Christmas music is the worst right?” She asks. Draco shrugs.

“Christmas is the worst,” he replies.

She glances up at him, a smile twitching at her lips. “Don’t like your in-laws?” She asks. Draco couldn’t think of anything further from the truth, but he somehow doesn’t want to explain quite how pathetic he is to this girl.

“Something like that,” he says instead.

“Ooh, mysterious,” the girl laughs, leaning against the counter. “That’ll be £2.27”. Draco counts out the amount painfully slowly, still not fully used to Muggle currency, while the shopkeep watches with a raised eyebrow. He hands over his money to her, only leaving one coin behind, and she returns another three with a flash of a smile and a “Thanks luv.”

“Have a good day,” he wishes her. She returns the sentiment and Draco heads out back into the rundown Muggle street with the noisy, flimsy Muggle sack hanging from his arm.

He makes his way all the way back to his apartment with his hood still down and the watery winter sunlight lighting his bright hair like a beacon, and nobody says anything to him at all. Once back in his apartment, he draws open the curtain and allows the sun to fall across his bed unimpeded.

Hunger is urging his stomach into revolt by now, so he quickly fixes himself a plain cheese sandwich and sits in his lone chair to eat it. It’s not a lot, but it sates the worst of the pangs in his stomach and he’s not about to use up more food than he needs to.

Finished eating, Draco sits back and contemplates what to do with his evening. He really doesn’t have much to occupy his time in this apartment and, if it weren’t for the terrible cold, it would be the boredom that irritated him most about having time off work. At least at the shop, he has Forsythe’s potion books to keep him occupied in the odd occasion that he runs out of things to do.

In the summer, he sometimes uses his limited spare time to get a wank off, but he can never quite manage to get into the mood when it’s so cold. He’d love to though. Merlin knew how long it had been since he’d gotten off. Maybe with a heating charm…

Draco goes through the familiar motions of wandlessly casting – closing his eyes, focusing, reaching for his magic. But it slips out of his grasp, and the magic fizzles out with his incantation, lost to the cool air of the room. Frowning, he tries a couple more times, but it doesn’t produce even a spark of warmth.

He lets out a disgruntled groan. His magic is restless at the moment, likely a result of having spent too much time around the elektrisity that Muggles used to power their lights. It tends to work magic up, and vice versa.

It’s not much of a problem in small doses, except for when Draco is trying to perform wandless magic untrained and every minor change in his magic is magnified to the extreme. He doesn’t know how to wrangle his magic when it’s like this, which means he has to sit here in the cold until it calms somewhat.

Disheartened, Draco bundles himself as much as he can in his ragged little blanket and climbs into bed. It doesn’t provide much warmth, and he sits there miserably as the shivers keep coming.

He looks longingly at his little noodle packet, wishing he could boil it now and have a warm meal. He’s just eaten though, and he could never eat more so soon. Even if his stomach is still growling hungrily. There’s no guarantee that the stove will turn on anyhow. It’s less likely to work in the cold, and it’s very cold right now. Draco can’t stop himself from trembling under his threadbare blanket.

He needs a distraction, something to keep his mind off it. The only thing he really has is the bloody romance novel, though. Draco reaches a shaking hand for it and flips it open listlessly, not really able to focus on any words through his shivering, but also not needing too. He’s read this book cover to cover countless times, and he knows its contents by heart. What he really needs is a nice new book, and a nice warm place to read it.

Draco stills, mentally slapping himself. Of course, he’s being a bloody idiot! It hasn’t even occurred to him but… nobody recognizes him any longer. He doesn’t have to sit alone in this freezing apartment. He can go anywhere! There is the little issue of him not having any money to contend with, but not every place he can go will need him to buy something.

Draco scrambles out of bed, tripping over his blanket in his haste to scramble out of his apartment and out into Knockturn. He strikes a fast clip up the Alley, anticipation and apprehension swirling in his gut in a stomach-turning mix.

He hasn’t been to Diagon in years, nearly a decade by this point. If Knockturn is unkind to him, Diagon is downright bloodthirsty. Draco doesn’t exactly blame them – it’s not as though he hasn’t brought it on with his own actions – but he also feels perfectly justified in avoiding the place.

It’s with great trepidation that he pauses at the entrance to Diagon. He knows, logically – or illogically, as the case may be – that he won’t be hurt there. That nobody will recognize him if he steps out of Knockturn’s shadow into the bright street of Diagon. It’s one thing to know this, however, and another to believe it, and Draco can’t stop the fear that curls icy fingers up his spine.

But Draco hasn’t come this far to turn back now, so he draws in a steadying breath, steels his nerves, and steps out of Knockturn and onto the snow-covered cobblestone of Diagon Alley. And, in the grand scheme of things, very little changes. He steps from one street to another. But to Draco, the moment feels weighty, monumental. He takes another step, then a third, looking around in delight.

The street is bustling in a way that Knockturn never quite imitates. Families, _children_ , walk and laugh freely. There are no furtive glances here, no shady characters sneering at anyone who gave them too much attention. Vendors hawk in the streets, surrounded by powerful warming charms. The sound of laughter, chatter, _life_ is all around.

Diagon is festooned for the season, magical decorations adorning every sign and lamppost, twinkling from the windows of shops he’d frequented as a child and climbing their storefronts. Draco spends a moment taking in the sigh, a nostalgic ache taking place in his heart at the memories of winters he’d once loved. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply and taking in the familiar smells and sounds.

And then something collides hard with him, knocking him down into the snowy street.

Draco yelps, completely unprepared for the fall, and lands painfully on his arse with an extremely solid body above him. The other person lifts off him a moment later, but the heat of their body doesn’t leave. He opens his eyes and looks up and there, hovering just above him and clad in bright red Auror robes, is none other than Harry Potter.

Draco’s eyes go wide, panic flooding him at the thought of Potter, his rival, finding him in like this – wandless and far too skinny, dressed in tattered, day-old clothes, with his hair sad and limp. He automatically scrabbling backwards to get away from him, cheeks warming in embarrassment… but no light of recognition appears in Potter’s shockingly green eyes.

Instead, those eyes go wide behind his glasses and an embarrassed flush of his own takes Potter’s face. He scrambles to his feet, stuttering out apologies as he reaches out a hand to Draco. Draco hesitates, but Potter doesn’t wait for his acceptance, seizing his wrist and pulling Draco off the ground with beguiling ease.

“Oh my god, are you alright? I’m so sorry!” Says Potter in that voice that has never failed to make Draco shiver. Hearing it now in person is even more spine-tingling. Large, strong hands come up to brush away the snow now covering Draco’s coat and hair, and Draco’s entire body heats with entwined desire and mortification.

“No, it’s perfectly alright, don’t worry about it all,” He babbles embarrassingly, and then wrenches his wrist away from Potter and all but sprints down the Alley. Merlin, but he’s a sodding halfwit. Acting like a first-year Hufflepuff with a crush in front of Harry bloody Potter.

Thankfully the street is busy enough that when Draco glances over his shoulder, he catches no sight of Potter. He slows to a more reasonable place, letting out a relieved sigh. Inappropriate crush aside, it’s best that he not get too close to Potter. Certainly, Potter won’t recognize him on sight alone. But the wish was frustratingly vague, and Draco has closer history with Potter than most. What if he were to say something that caused the other man to recognize him? No, it’s undoubtedly better to stay far, far away.

He continues retreating up the street until he’s about thirty paces away from Gringotts, where he takes an abrupt left into a tiny, cramped side alley that contains a couple of little storefronts. One of them bears an old, chipped sign, with fading paint proclaiming it a library. Draco smiles at the sight of it.

He hadn’t been sure that this place would still be open – it’s been over ten years since his last visit after all – but he’d dearly hoped it was. He has fond memories of this place, of coming hear with his mother while his father had conducted business in Gringotts, and whiling away afternoon surrounded by warm light and the smell of books. When he was older, he and his mother simply sit near one another to read and enjoy one another’s company, but during his younger years she had sat him on her lap and stroked his hair while she’d read to him in her calming voice.

Draco shakes his head, forcing the memory away before his suspiciously wet eyes spill over. He can’t think of his parents – not in public at least, where anyone can see his tears. Instead he pushes his way into the library, a wave of warm air rising to meet him and bringing with it the smell of parchment, leather, and wax.

He lets in a deep breath, allowing the comforting scent to wash over him, thick with memories. He steps further into the library, and the wizened old librarian shelving books nearby notices him and looks up. “Hello there,” she says, her hands pausing in her task. “Can I help you find anything?”

“No, thank you,” Draco replies politely. He has no plans here, just the wish of a warm refuge and something to read to pass the time. He walks through the library, running his eyes along the shelves and taking his time.

The plethora of choice now, after years, is thrilling, and he finds himself in no hurry to decide on reading material. That is, until he is in the learning section and the spartan lettering on the straight-backed spine of an utterly unremarkable book catches his eye. _The Fundamentals of Wandless Casting_. Draco’s breath catches. Of course. He could spend his anonymity reading for pleasure, but this is a much better use of his time. He’s always loved learning, and this is practically useful as well. Plus, he can continue practicing any theory he learns once he’s home in his apartment.

He lifts the heavy volume from the shelf, carrying it over to a nearby armchair and side-table pair, setting the book down on the side-table before quickly divesting himself of his coat and gloves and draping them over the back of the chair. He settles himself into the armchair, letting out a little groan as even the comfortable plush makes his already sore arse twinge. Stupid Potter, running over innocent passersby in the street.

He thinks back to the incident with a frown, his mind drawing, with loving detail, the solid form that had bowled him over. Merlin, but he’d looked good. Draco’s heard his voice often over the years – Potter is, to this day, a darling of the media and is often featured on the wireless – but he hasn’t seen him since the end of the war. Clearly, time has treated Potter as well as it’s treated Draco badly. He’d already been arresting in school, a wild magnetism to him that had always drawn Draco’s attention – and now he’s grown into it, wearing that pull with an innate ease. Auror work has filled out his frame, his muscles just discernable under his robes and certainly felt when he was barrelling into Draco, and he’s lost the general air of confusion he’d had as a boy. During their brief interaction he’d seemed capable, powerful...

It brings all sorts of longing thoughts to Draco’s mind, and he banishes them furiously. There’s nothing there, not for him– although, perhaps he should go to a bar one of these days while nobody recognizes him, pull a cute somebody he’ll never see again, and get a good dicking down. Merlin knows it’s been long enough. Although – Draco grimaces – it might not be as easy as it once was to turn someone’s head. Draco had been attractive in school, he has no illusion otherwise, but little sleep and less food is not a good look on him.

Slightly disheartened and determined to cast this line of thought from his mind, Draco picks up the textbook from the sidetable and opens it. He kicks off his boots and tucks his feet under him as he settles in. He’s missed this, losing himself in the study and theory of magic – he’d always been a good student, and the pursuit of knowledge is a challenge that he likes.

He spends the rest of the day there, warm and cozy, curled in a squishy armchair in a homey library, pouring over a tome on wandless magic, and it’s the best afternoon he’s had in recent memory. He only leaves when the library closes, walking slowly Diagon and enjoying the way the festive lights sparkle against the night dark.

When he falls asleep that night, he dreams of warm winters past and stunning green eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I’m not condoning picking up strangers under false pretenses, don’t do that!  
> Harry will start making a bigger appearance next chapter 😊


	4. Day 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Potter shows up and insists on buying Draco a drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was twice as long because I almost posted the last chapter and this one combined :(

**December 11 th , 2007 **

Draco wakes to an absolutely frigid morning and cold sun in his eyes, but for once it doesn’t dampen his mood. He’s positively chipper as he hurries through his morning shower and pulls on his stiff, cold clothes. He manages to get his stove working and, though he’s skipping breakfast today, he boils plain water in lieu of tea. He just barely waits until it’s cool enough before sipping it from a chipped mug, enjoying the warmth it brings.

He briefly flirts with the idea of trying a warming charm for the apartment, but it’s not a serious consideration. Why potentially waste an extinguisher when he now has a perfectly warm library available to him instead?

There’s no reason to dawdle around his apartment so he doesn’t – he slips into the empty hallway and then down the stairs and out to the street. It’s a cold but quick trek up Knockturn and then onto Diagon where the harsh weather prevents him from spending too much time admiring the splendor.

The street is less busy today, likely as a result of both the temperature and the early hour, but it’s still lively. Draco thankfully has no run-ins with Potter today on his way to the library.

The warm, familiar smell of books and ink greets him as he pushes into the building. The librarian, sitting behind the counter today, looks up and nods to him in greeting.

“Good morning,” Draco returns with a polite smile. He makes a beeline, this time, straight to the back where he’d found the volumes on wandless magic yesterday. He’d just reached the section of the book dedicated to harmonizing energy, magic, and intent, when he’d had to leave yesterday, and he’s eager to return to it.

He spends several hours there, reading theory and running through the practice exercises in the book. They’re not spells, not really, just exercises to learn to handle his magic better, and they’ve nothing to do with heat besides, so he’s not particularly worried about starting fires. They are, after all, designed for beginners, and therefore start small. A pleasant result of this, he finds, is that he’s not exhausted or hungry after practicing. Well… okay, he is hungry because he’s always hungry, but he’s not more so than usual.

People come and go from the library, but nobody pays him any mind and nor does he pay them any. Despite the steady traffic, the library is quiet, and Draco is well able to ignore them all and descend into his study.

So his day goes, until just after the library clock strikes 2 o’clock. That’s when Potter and Granger show up. Draco doesn’t see them, but he hears their voices, easily recognizable from being so often on the wireless – Granger is chattering about wizarding law and magical creates, and Potter is humouring her with one-word answers. Draco’s head shoots up, pure panic searing through his veins.

He glances wildly around but doesn’t catch sight of them – they’re somewhere else in the library – and he’s already half out of his seat and considering how best to make a break for it before his mind catches up with him. He pauses, taking a calming breath. Right, he’s being a fool again. They won’t recognize him. To them, he’s just a stranger in a library.

Draco forces himself to calm down, tentatively perching back on the edge of his armchair. He flicks open his book again, his muscles still tense as he looks unseeingly at the pages. But minutes go by and nothing happens, and Draco feels himself relaxing again.

His fingers loosen their grip on the book, and he allows himself to sink further into the armchair and actually start reading again. It’s interesting stuff, the theory behind wandless magic and the changes that must be adjusted for when not using a conduit. He lips move along silently as he reads a passage about the delicacy of shaping and directing magic by will alone.

There’s an exercise here too, walking him through the steps to produce harmless sparkles and then working through controlling the amount, shape, and intensity of them. It’s not a direct, straightforward endeavor, of course, where one simply follows a series of instructions and achieves a result. This is more nuanced, the instructions more abstract, requiring interpretation and creativity to apply them.

But Draco has had a lot of practice working with his magic, and many of these concepts come easily to him now. He feels he’s progressing though the book faster than he would ordinarily, had he not spent so much time reaching into himself and trying to guide his own magic.

The text expects that it will take several days of practice to even pull one’s magic up far enough to get sparkles, but it’s infinitely easier than heating charms and Draco has them dancing around before him in a matter of minutes. Changing their properties is more of a challenge, one that Draco dives into with enthusiasm. He spends the better part of an hour learning how to make sparkles bend to his whim.

He’s having fun making little sparkle fireworks when he looks up and sees Harry Potter standing there and staring at him. He lets out a surprised squawk, the sparkles fizzling out unceremoniously.

Potter flushes and scratches at the back of his head. “Sorry about that,” he says. “You’re the bloke from yesterday right? The one I ran into?”

Draco’s mouth opens and closes uselessly, not sure what to say. Potter remembers him, from bumping into him in the street. Potter is talking to him. Normally. What the fuck?

The silence hangs, awkward, for a beat before Potter fills it. “I really am sorry you know,” he says, and it’s no less awkward now that he’s speaking. Draco casts about for something to say.

“I…it’s fine,” he settles on faintly. He’d said as much yesterday hadn’t he? He distinctly remembers babbling nonsense of that sort at Potter.

Potter shakes his head, scuffing his strange muggle shoes against the warm carpet as he peers at Draco again. “You ran off so quickly yesterday,” he says, surprisingly unsure. “I didn’t get a chance to offer, but I’d like to buy you a drink. To make it up to you.”

Draco frowns, opening his mouth to tell Potter, again, that it’s fine, but Potter heads him off. “I know you said it’s okay,” he says quickly, “but it would make me feel better.” When Draco still doesn’t answer, he tilts his head, gives him a beseeching look that makes him look a little like a baby Crup, and says “Please?”

“Umm…” Draco replies intelligently, clutching his book hard and holding ut in front of him like a barrier. He shouldn’t accept, he really shouldn’t. He’s already decided it best that he stay far away from Potter, no matter how cutely he’s behaving at the moment. If Potter remembers who he is, it will ruin everything.

But Potter is offering him a free drink that isn’t water, and maybe Draco can get him to throw in a bit of food that won’t deplete his meagre stash…

Draco’s stomach turns restlessly, reminding him of how perpetually hungry he is. He knows that he shouldn’t, but he can’t resist.

“Throw in a bagel and I’ll consider it,” he decides, and Potter’s eyes light up.

“Brilliant!” He says eagerly, bouncing slightly on his heels like an overexcited kid. He gestures at Draco’s book. “Let’s get that checked out and we can go,” he says.

He wants to go right now? Draco looks at him in shock, but he seems perfectly serious, still looking over at Draco’s book.

“Oh, erm, never mind that. I’ll just…” Draco trails off awkwardly, nodding toward the shelves. Potter waits as he gets up and re-shelves the book.

Potter takes his arm as soon as he’s finished putting the book away, half-leading and half-dragging him toward the front of the library. They take a small detour to the section on wizarding law, where Granger is browsing the shelves with single-minded determination, so that Potter can call his goodbyes. He barely waits for her reply before he’s leading Draco away again.

They walk down Diagon Alley for a way, passing half-a-dozen little cafes that Potter shows no interest in, and then turn off onto another little street. It’s also a commercial street, but it’s smaller than Diagon, quainter and quieter. It’s still resplendent with Christmas lights, but it has a different air; the quieter atmosphere lends a sense of magic to the air that catches Draco’s breath and causes him to gaze about in awe. It’s such a mundane thing to be excited about, something his younger self would not have even noticed, but now that his life consists of the drab, bland, dankness of Knockturn Alley, he doesn’t take such beauty for granted.

Potter draws them to a stop then, and he turns to see him watching Draco with a smile. Draco quirks an eyebrow, but Potter merely shakes his head, before turning and gesturing to a tiny shop.

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but they have the best drinks here. I swear it.” Potter says. He pulls open the door and holds it for Draco, who feels oddly flustered at the gesture. He ducks his head and murmurs his thanks before he steps inside, moving out of Potter’s way and looking around.

It’s tiny and cramped, with mismatched furniture, scrubbed wooden floors, and pale-yellow walls. It’s not fashionable at all, but it’s bright and warm and Draco likes it. A young witch is behind the counter, chatting with a wizened old man, and other than that the store is empty.

Potter steps up beside him and turns a warm smile on him. “What would you like to drink?” He asks, gesturing to the menu written in chalk behind the front counter. Draco looks over to it, but there are so many options – the board is covered completely with cutesy writing declaring the names of various drinks – that he can’t decide. Tea is a treat for Draco these days.

Potter is still looking at him expectantly, and he burns in embarrassment at failing such a simple task as deciding his drink. “Surprise me,” he hedges. Potter nods, starting to turn away, and Draco adds hastily, “but make it sweet!” He feels his cheeks flush again as Potter chuckles.

“Alright, something sweet,” he says, his green eyes impossibly soft. Draco has never seen those eyes look at him with anything but hatred, and having it now sends electric sparks through his body. Draco shudders, forcing the thought away.

Belatedly, he realises Potter’s saying something to him. “Sorry?” He asks. His face is going to be permanently red at this point.

Potter raises his eyebrows, but he’s smiling. “I said, why don’t you get us seats and I’ll get the drinks.”

Draco raises an eyebrow of his own and looks pointedly around the empty café. “That may be a hardship, what with this crowd, but I’ll try my very best,” he cheeks. Potter outright laughs at that.

“Alright, Mr. Sass, just go sit down,” he says. Draco smirks but turns to comply, while Potter approaches the counter. He hears, from behind him, the girl at the counter saying “Harry! Back so soon?”, and Potter answering with something too quiet for Draco to hear.

He chooses the little round table nearest to the front window and sits, looking out at the twinkling street. Once upon a time, he would have looked down on a place like this. Now, he barely feels that he belongs, with his holey gloves and tattered, baggy clothes. He privately thanks Potter’s apparently overly active sense of remorse that’s led to him being here.

Potter soon comes back, levitating a mug of something steaming, that’s topped generously with whipped cream, and a freshly toasted bagel in front of him. It’s soon followed by a platter of pastries that slides into place between them. Draco blinks at these and then looks questioningly up at him. “What are these then?” he asks. Potter flushes.

“They’re – ah – something sweet,” he explains haltingly, scratching at the back of his head. Merlin, no wonder his hair was a mess. Still, it’s an exceedingly decent thing of Potter to do, and certainly not anything he’s used to.

“Thank you,” he replies, quiet but honest. Potter beams at him, and Draco smiles back as he sips at his drink, which he is delighted to find is hot chocolate.

“So…” says Potter, sliding into the seat across from him, “I never did get your name.”

Draco freezes – can he give Potter his own name? Will that break this anonymity he’s been granted? He’s not sure, and he doesn’t want to chance it.

“Emory,” he says, thinking of the dashing love interest in the romance novel sitting on his bed. “Emory Hughes.”

“Emory Hughes,” Potter repeats, smiling. “I’m Harry Potter.”

“I know,” says Draco without thinking, then clamps his mouth shut, eyes widening. Luckily, Potter doesn’t seem suspicious.

“I had wondered,” he says instead, laughing, and Draco is struck again by how handsome Potter is. He swallows nervously and, to distract himself, takes a pastry and pops it into his mouth. It’s good – incredible really – flaky, buttery, and filled with sweet cream. Draco can’t help his moan, closing his eyes in pleasure. Merlin, and he’d just wanted a bagel!

Potter has stopped laughing somewhat abruptly, and Draco opens his eyes to see him picking up his mug and taking a huge gulp. He then immediately flails, sputtering “Hot! Hot!” and dripping hot chocolate from his mouth and probably from his nose also.

The sight of Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, dribbling hot chocolate is too much, and Draco can’t hold in his delighted laughter. Potter manages to get a hold of himself, dabbing at his mouth with his serviette and blushing furiously as he glares at Draco, but that only makes Draco laugh harder. Potter glares for a moment longer, and then he is laughing too. “I’m not usually this clumsy, honest!” Potter defends once they’ve both calmed down.

Draco shakes his head, tearing his bagel apart and smirking at Potter. “I don’t know,” he replies, “first you bowled me over in the Alley yesterday, and now this.” He sighs dramatically. “I think you will just have to accept the obvious – you are an utter klutz”

Harry pouts. “I hope you’ll accept all of my flaws then,” he says, and Draco grins.

“If your flaws continue buying me hot chocolate and pastries, I might just be persuaded,” he returns easily. He sips at said hot chocolate to make his point and smirks at Potter.

“Such a hardship,” Potter says. “How will my flaws and I manage?”

Draco throws a crumb of toasted bagel at him. “How dare you,” he sniffs. “I’m a delight, I’ll have you know.” 

Potter gives him a once over, smirks, and says, “I see that.” Draco sputters, red-cheeked. Is Potter flirting with him? No, that can’t be possible, he’s reading too much into it. That’s just to be expected when nobody’s talked to him like a human in years, he supposes – a single modicum of human decency is shown to him, and he thinks he’s being flirted with.

Draco inwardly rolls his eyes at him self and pops a bite of bagel into his mouth. “Well, good to know those glasses are good for something then,” he says at length, far too late. Potter doesn’t call him out on it, though his green eyes are amused as he sips his hot chocolate.

Potter proves surprisingly easy to talk to, a notion that once would have sent Draco into a conniption. He’s always thought the man fit, but now as he sits chatting with him, he finds that his company is honestly pleasant as well. The afternoon passes faster than he realises, and by the time they get up to leave, the sun is hanging low and painting the sky bright with colour.

Potter walks with him back to the library, where he needs to meet up with Granger, and Draco is almost regretful as they arrive.

“Thank you, Potter,” he says, stopping just inside the library door.

“Call me Harry,” Potter insists. Draco frowns – that’s decidedly too weird. It’s not as though they’re going to see each other again anyway.

“Goodbye Potter,” he insists instead. Potter opens his mouth to argue, but at that moment Granger emerges from the stacks and catches sight of them. She makes a beeline toward Potter, and Draco nods a greeting at her and steps out of the way. He catches sight of Potter’s pout in the corner of his eye and grins to himself, feeling lighter than he has in years as he makes his way back to the wandless magic section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	5. Day 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Potter shows up at the library again, and he and Draco talk more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow politics snuck in here idk it wasn’t the plan

**December 12 th , 2007**

It’s almost warm when Draco wakes, and the sun is bright through his ragged curtains. A smile crosses his face, unbidden, as he recalls the previous day. It’s almost unbelievable that Potter, with whom he had spent so long in a miserable rivalry, is the one to provide such a pleasant afternoon to him. Then again, it’s probably the human conversation and good food responsible for his mood – no need to attribute it to Potter. He stretches luxuriously and spends some time just basking in the warm sun and his own happiness.

Eventually, he needs to piss so he rolls out of bed and pads to the bathroom. He relieves himself quickly and returns to the main room, where he sits on the bed and draws back the curtain, just because he can. The street is busy, for Knockturn standards, and the sun is already high in the sky – it must be nearing noon.

That’s a surprise – he’s slept in. It’s not something he normally does; usually he wakes with the sun or sometimes, in winter, before it if the cold wakes him first. He hasn’t a wand to provide an alarm, so his internal clock has had to step up to the plate to prevent him from missing work. He can’t deny that it’s nice, though, and he feels incredibly well rested.

He decides to wash his hair again today – it’s a warmer day, which means less effort to dry it, and he’s not about to waste that. He is quick and efficient in the shower, as usual, and he dresses first before sitting on the bed and holding his hands up to his head. He concentrates, feeling for his magic and pulling it to his will, and he could swear that the charm comes easier to him today as it leaps to his instruction and surrounds his head with warm air.

As he’d eaten more yesterday than he has in recent memory (thank you Potter), he decides to skip breakfast today. With no more reason to dawdle, Draco cheerfully lets himself out of his apartment. He’s in high spirits as he makes his way up Knockturn and into Diagon, and he twirls happily in the light snow that’s started up. He’s sure to be attracting some strange looks, acting like an overgrown child as he is, but he can’t bring himself to care. The festive décor festooning Diagon Alley lifts his spirits further, and he takes his time walking along the street, gazing around him and joyfully taking in the holiday spirit on display. By the time he reaches the library, it’s nearing noon.

“Hullo!” He chirps to the librarian, stopping just inside the door to brush the snow out of his hair.

“Hello dear,” she returns, giving him a warm smile. Draco returns the smile and then makes his way to his usual corner, humming his favourite traditional carol, _Winter Warlock_ s, as he goes. He settles into the same armchair with his book, ready continue where he’d left off yesterday – applying the control he’d learnt in the previous section to simple spells.

It is a harder task than one might anticipate. Wand movements are meant to replicate the runic base of spells, so casting without them means one must use the magic itself to shape the spell, and then control and guide the magic to form the effect as well. Draco considers himself fortunate for his upbringing – his parents had taught him much about wandlore, and he doesn’t think he will have managed to muddle through figuring out wandless heating charms on his own without that knowledge. The book has more techniques and suggestions for doing this, though, and Draco is excited to practice.

A couple of hours go in which Draco remains deeply engrossed in his study. The library is busy, but overall quiet, and nobody disturbs him in his little corner of the world. Then, he hears that unforgettable voice.

“Emory! Hi,” it says. Draco’s eyes dart up from sheer force of habit – he’s never been able to ignore Potter – and he jumps slightly when he finds the other man standing right there, looking directly at him.

“Hey Emory,” he says again, and it takes Draco another beat to remember the false name he’d given to the other man.

“Oh – Potter!” He sputters eloquently.

“It’s Harry,” Potter laughs, stepping closer. “You were really into that huh? Took you a moment there.”

“Right…yes, I was rather immersed,” Draco agrees, closing the book around one finger. He looks at Potter expectantly, wondering what the man wants.

Potter peers at his book and raises an eyebrow. “Wandless magic?” He asks, sounding impressed. Draco wonders if he’d be impressed if he knew the reason that Draco is learning wandless magic, that he’s too pathetic to have either a wand or a heated apartment. His cheeks flush pink with embarrassment, and he looks down at his book to avoid meeting Potter’s eyes.

“Yes, well…” he mutters, flustered. He covers the book with his other hand, and then lifts his chin and looks back up at Potter defiantly. “It’s an interest, nothing more.” He quickly changes the subject. “What are you doing back at the library today Potter? Granger on a research kick?”

For some reason, Potter goes red. “Something like that,” he replies shiftily, not meeting Draco’s eyes. Draco raises an eyebrow, but Potter doesn’t elaborate further. Instead, he whips out his wand and summons another armchair from somewhere in the library.

Draco bites his lip as Potter slumps lazily into the chair and stretches out his attractively muscled legs for Draco’s gaze to trace. He forces his eyes back up to Potter’s face with some difficulty, and finds him smirking at him.

Face heating further, Draco rushes to deflect the attention. He huffs. “Oh yes, by all means Potter, do sit down. Thank you for asking, no I’m not doing anything, I’d love the company, et cetera et cetera.”

“It’s Harry,” corrects Potter with a grin, “and you should be honoured. My company is in high demand,” His tone is teasing and not at all the bragging Draco would have once expected from him. It’s oddly charming.

“In that case, thank you for your charity,” he replies primly. “Truly. I’ll remember it to the day I die.” And okay, that might be a little more on the nose than he’s comfortable with, but it’s not as if Potter knows how much his company actually means to Draco.

Potter laughs. “Sod off, you!” He says. Draco smirks.

“But then how will I reap the benefits of your highly-demanded company?” he asks, and Potter groans.

They fall into a comfortable silence then, and Draco reopens his book and tries to go back to reading. It’s impossible – he’s too aware of where Potter is shifting restlessly in his armchair.

“What is the noble cause this time then?” He asks when Potter’s antsiness becomes too much. He doesn’t lift his eyes from his book.

“What?” says Potter blankly. Draco does look up then, and finds Potter staring at him.

“You and Granger,” he clarifies. “She was in the magical law section yesterday. I know that the house-elf bill is passed. What is it now?”

“Oh,” says Potter, face clearing. He relaxes back into his chair with a grin. “Something about vampires, I’m not too sure about the specifics.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. Vampires are not discriminated upon by laws, but Draco’s learnt well enough that laws are not needed to make life harder on someone. “She’ll have an uphill battle then,” he sighs. “The Ministry has never been interested in helping anyone out. Just look at how we treat Squibs.”

Potter looks at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

Draco runs his finger along the top of the book, pursing his lips as he thinks of how to explain what he means. “Our society is entirely built upon the assumption of magic,” he answers eventually. “Think of housing. At minimum, you’d want heating charms for the winter, wards, or even just magical locks. A Squib can’t do any of that. So, they either must rent somewhere that all of this is provided by the landlord, which is at extra cost mind you, or they must pay a third party to provide it for them. Heating charms and wards are not just a one-time thing either – they are a yearly expense at least. And it’s not cheap to have them done well.

And then add to that that Squibs have a harder time getting well-paying jobs. Even for a position like caretaker, most employers would sooner hire someone able to use magic, since they’d be more efficient. It’s not impossible for a Squib to get a well-paid job, of course, but it’s much harder.

It’s not injudicious that most Squibs choose to live among Muggles, even though they are of magical folk. At home they have a harder time making money, yet it costs them more to live.

Consider even transportation – an Apparition licence is the cheapest option, but it requires magic. Floo powder is not expensive in and off itself, but you’d need a hearth, which is not always an option on a budget. Brooms are expensive. Portkeys need a license and have to be charmed. Knight Bus fare adds up when you have to pay twice a day every day…”

He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “I’ve become carried away. Forgive me Potter. I simply meant to say that even if there are no laws making Squibs lives harder, that doesn’t mean that they’re treated well by society. It’s the same for vampires.”

“That’s terrible,” Potter says. He looks guilty. “I never realised-”

“Most people don’t,” Draco cuts him off. He himself likely would never have given it a thought were it not for his own circumstances. Worse, his younger self wouldn’t have cared. A lot has changed for Draco, but Potter has never been that selfish.

“Don’t go feeling guilty over it, Potter,” he tells him. “You and Granger have been doing more than most to right such injustices.”

Potter looks at him, determined. “I want to help though,” he says. “Hermione will too. She’s brilliant you know. I’m sure there’s something she can do.”

Draco looks at him surprised. Just like that, Potter’s ready to try and change wizarding society? Then again, if anyone can do so it will be the beloved war heroes. They had managed to change house-elf laws, after all, bringing them pay and working standards. Draco had never thought that such a thing could be possible until they’d done it.

“She and you both, surely.” Draco says finally, because Potter seems to be downplaying his role in all this.

Potter chuckles. “Hermione does most of the work,” he admits. “I’m usually kept pretty busy with the Auror stuff, and I don’t have her patience for research. I’m just a mouthpiece really. People listen to me.” He shrugs, a self-deprecating smile pulling at his lips. Draco snorts. No kidding.

“Yes, I did hear the elf campaign on the Wireless,” he says drily.

Potter gives a self-conscious little smile. “I was almost pissing myself giving all those speeches,” he confesses. “Hermione kept giving me these massive packages of information – nearly seventy inches once, double sided! And I was supposed to include it all in my speeches. Most of the time I went up in front of the Wizengamot and completely blanked.”

Draco laughs disbelievingly. “You are serious?” He asks when Potter doesn’t laugh along with him. Potter nods, and Draco boggles. “Well, you’ve sounded very confident,” he says.

“The Wizengamot thought so,” Potter agrees. He looks pleased with himself as he crosses his arms behind his head and leans back in his chair. The move reveals a tantalizing strip of golden skin at his belly that draws Draco’s attention.

He swallows, and forces himself to look away, back down at his book. Potter is quiet for a while, and Draco feels the weight of his gaze heavy upon his skin.

“So,” Potter says at length, finally breaking the silence, “enough about me. Tell me about yourself Emory.”

Draco stiffens. What can he say? He doesn’t know what might trigger Potter into remembering him. “There isn’t much to tell,” he says eventually, staring unseeingly at his book.

Potter laughs at him. “So mysterious,” he says, and Draco scowls. It doesn’t deter him in the slightest. “Come on, give me something?” He presses. At Draco’s continued silence, he prompts. “What about the job. What do you do?”

Draco stares stubbornly at his book for a moment, then sighs. This, at least, is harmless. “I work in a shop.” He says shortly. “I’m really not very interesting Potter.”

“Harry,” corrects Potter, “and I find you plenty interesting.”

“You don’t even know me!” Protests Draco, rolling his eyes. Potter leans forward again.

“Then tell me,” he says earnestly. “Tell me something about you. A story from your childhood maybe?”

Draco bites his lip, rubbing his thumb against the letters on the spine of his book. What could he tell that won’t give too much away? He reckons that there is plenty that Potter doesn’t know about his childhood that would be safe to tell, but all it would take is one detail to slip and this whole thing is blown.

He remains silent a moment too long, or else Potter senses his hesitance, and he backs off a little. “Okay, don’t worry about the childhood stories then,” he says. “How about… your favourite winter activity?”

He can tell Potter is trying, but this isn’t much easier. Winter has been the worst part of the year for the past eight years for Draco. With neither a heated apartment nor a wand, it is always a struggle just to stay warm. There have been years when it was so bad that Draco was sure he would die.

“Emory?” Potter asks softly. He grasps one of Draco’s hands between his strong ones, his green eyes bright with worry. “Are you okay?”

Draco shakes himself out of his memories and manages a wan smile. “Sure Potter, I’m fine,” he reassures him. Potter still looks dubious, so Draco decides to indulge him. He casts his mind back to before, back when he still had a happy home, when winter and Christmas were eagerly anticipated all year.

“Ice skating,” he says finally.

Potter cocks his head. “That’s your favourite winter activity?” He determines. Draco nods.

“It was a family tradition,” he offers. “On Christmas we – it was always a big deal at home. We’d throw grand parties, every year. I’m not actually certain that my parents liked all of their guests.” He shakes his head. “I think they were just people invited for…work.” Merlin, he’d almost mentioned the Death Eaters. Why is he telling Potter this?

But Potter is watching him and listening intently, and it’s the attention Draco had always craved from him. He continues. “The adults were all busy entertaining” – competing against one another, rather – “and us children were left to our own devices. We got up to a lot of mischief.” He allows for a nostalgic smile here. They really had been his friends, until they’d gotten old enough that they were drawn into their parents’ politics. He misses such easy times.

He shakes off the sudden sadness briskly. “But my favourite part of the day was always after the party, when all the guests had gone home. Mother and Father would take me down to an old pond in the…behind our house. We’d skate until I fell over from exhaustion! Then Father would carry me up to the house, and Mother would make hot chocolate and we’d sit in front of the fire and make up stories until I fell asleep. I…I miss those times.”

He breaks off abruptly and shakes his head, embarrassed. “Sorry, it’s not a very interesting story. Ice skating of all things…”

“No, no,” says Potter. “It sounds wonderful. I – er – I never had any Christmas traditions.”

Draco looks up at him, surprised. No traditions – none at all? Catching the look, Potter expounds, “The muggles”, which was no clearer.

“Sorry, I don’t follow,” he says, tilting his head in confusion. “What muggles?”

Potter stares at him. “You never… really?” He says. Draco meets his gaze, baffled.

“You’re not making any sense Potter,” he says.

“Huh,” answers Potter, which also doesn’t make sense. He stares at Draco like he’s never seen him before.

Draco squirms. Has he given something away? “What?” he asks uncomfortably.

“Nothing,” Potter replies. He smiles suddenly. “Come ice skating with me tomorrow?”

“ _What?_ ” Draco repeats. He stares at Potter incredulously.

“Come ice skating tomorrow,” Potter reiterates, more surely. “And then we can go get hot chocolate.”

Draco stares at him, and Potter looks back, unrepentant. “Potter you-” Draco cuts himself off and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Potter is tilting his head and giving Draco those beseeching kicked-Crup eyes. This is a terrible idea. “Fine,” he sighs. “Just for a little while.”

“Brilliant!” Potter says, and beams at him. Draco’s stomach does a silly flip. He bites his lip and looks down at his book, trying to quell the warm emotion rising in him.

“How does 2 o’clock tomorrow sound?” Asks Potter. “I can pick you up?”

Draco flushes. No way is Potter seeing his hovel. “We can meet here,” he replies. Potter wilts a little but smiles anyway.

“It’s a date,” he says, and Draco’s face burns even further at the wording. He knows that Potter doesn’t mean anything by it, and it’s better that he doesn’t, but his stupid heart is still doing somersaults.

“Yes, very good,” he says, holding up his book and hiding his burning face behind it. “Now if you’ve quite finished interrupting my reading Potter…”

Potter laughs at him and waves his hand. “Oh go on then, continue your mastery of the wandless arts,” he says. Draco lowers the book slightly to glower at him, but it only makes Potter laugh more. Which, in turn, only makes his blush worse really, because Potter is unfairly attractive – especially so when he laughs.

He thankfully takes mercy on Draco then, getting up to go get something to read from the shelves and giving him time to pull his façade back together. By the time Potter returns with some book about Quidditch, Draco’s cheeks are no longer heated, and he’s managed to compose himself.

The pair of them sit in comfortable companionship for the rest of the day, reading silently and occasionally interrupting the quiet to chat about something small and inane. By the time the library closes, and the librarian kicks them out, Draco is feeling unreasonably warm, inside and out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the last update at this pace - my vacation ends tomorrow and I'll be writing much slower after that :(


	6. Day 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry's ice-skating plans get interrupted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ao3 is down and making it very difficult for me /sobs

**December 13 th , 2007**

The brief warm flash from the previous day unfortunately doesn’t last, and Draco is woken before sunrise by the freezing air. “Bloody fuck,” he mutters, shivering violently as he sits up. It’s not even a consideration that he tries another warming charm – today is one of those days that is just too cold to bear without it.

It’s hard to focus enough to cast wandlessly when it’s this cold, which is just counterproductive really, but it’s not as though Draco hasn’t faced days this cold before. He inhales a shivering breath, ignoring his trembling as much as possible and endeavouring to block out the chill, as he reaches down into his magic.

He tries some of the new techniques that he’d studied yesterday, but it doesn’t come immediately to him. It takes a few tries before he actually manages to cast the spell but, to his great relief, the new technique does expend less effort. It doesn’t improve the potency of the spell though – the room warms enough to be only just bearable – so Draco makes a mental note to find a way to improve that.

Not wanting to risk the spell wearing off, Draco hops quickly out of bed and rushes through his shower. He pulls on his clothes and his outdoor gear, shuddering at the cold fabric.

He’s meant to meet Potter today for ice skating, and he shivers at he very prospect. Hopefully, the weather warms up by then – his clothes aren’t all too warm as it is, and skating about at any speed is sure to make it worse. It would be terribly embarrassing if he has to beg off skating early because he’s cold.

Then again, maybe it’s embarrassing just to go out dressed as he is. He looks himself over critically in his chipped little mirror, taking in his appearance and grimacing. He’s scrawny, malnourished and it shows, his naturally sharp features turned harsh and unattractive. His hair is neither as glossy nor as healthy as it once had been but it’s not greasy either. He fiddles with it until it lays in an acceptable wave, framing and softening his face.

But his garments still hang too loosely on his thin frame, ragged and torn and not flattering at all. His gloves have so many holes that they scarcely count as gloves, his coat is threadbare, his pants are patched and baggy, and his boots are one hard knock away from falling apart. Draco scoffs at himself and turns away from the mirror. What is he doing, trying to primp himself, trying to look attractive? Those days are long past.

Giving up on the mirror, he goes over to his little stove and fiddles with it, trying to coax it to life. It takes a minute but, against all odds, turns on. Draco inwardly cheers. He’s going to be expending energy today, if he’s to go skating, and he hadn’t eaten yesterday. It most certainly won’t do to faint in front of Potter just because his stove won’t cooperate.

He toasts himself a couple of slices of bread, eating them dry, and boils some water that he pretends is tea. Then he heads to the library, where he and Potter are to meet.

The librarian catches sight of him and gives him her usual smile. “Hello dear,” she says, as she does every day. Draco returns the smile, genuinely happy to see her friendly face.

“Good morning,” he replies, waving his hello. That’s the extent of their daily conversation, so he goes on to browse the shelves.

He’s very early – the clock on the wall shows that it’s just barely eight, and they’re not set to meet until two. He has plenty of time to make use of the library, and he’s hoping to move onto more advanced wandless theory.

He finds his usual book, double-checks the index to make sure that it covers spell potency, and then carries it back to his armchair. He means to study until Potter arrives, but he only gets about three hours in before his interrupted sleep and the warmth of the library get to him.

He doesn’t even notice drifting off, but he finds himself waking sometime later, comfortable and warm enough that he almost falls back asleep. Then he sees Potter, sitting in his summoned armchair and watching him, and that startles him enough that he stops drowsing. “Creepy, Potter,” he mumbles, blinking and rubbing his eyes to clear the bleariness. “Do you make it a habit to watch people sleep?”

“It’s Harry,” Potter pouts. “Do you make it a habit to sleep in libraries?”

“Touché,” he yawns, too sleepy to bother with a comeback. He glances up at the clock, which shows quarter to three, and frowns. “You should have woken me.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Potter fumbles. “I just- you looked comfortable.”

Draco stretches languorously and blinks at Potter, who’s staring back at him intently. “You’re an odd one Potter,” he tells him. He extends a lazy hand. “Help me up, won’t you?”

Potter snorts, but grips Draco’s hand firmly and pulls him to his feet. Draco sleepily admires the ease with which he does so. He pokes at Potter’s bicep and finds it firm with solid muscle. “Bloody Aurors”, he mutters, then grabs his book and wanders off to the shelf to return it. When he returns, Potter’s face is as red as Auror robes, and that’s when Draco realises what he’s done.

His own face burns with mortification and he casts around for something to say, but all that comes out is a useless squeak. “I just meant,” he finally manages. “Very good, Aurors. Doing great. Thanks for your service, and all that.” Merlin, what is he even saying? He doesn’t even like Aurors, they’re usually not very nice. He needs to get over this humiliating habit of just babbling nonsense when he’s embarrassed.

Potter laughs, though, and his face clears of its embarrassed flush. He throws one of those muscular arms around Draco’s shoulders. “And you called me the odd one,” he says, his voice oddly fond. “Come on then. Let’s get a move on.”

He guides them out of the library and into Diagon, where the freezing air finally wakes Draco the rest of the way. Merlin, he’s so mortified. He’s never going to fall asleep in public again.

He thinks about pulling away from Potter – he’s really thrown this ‘staying away’ thing out the window – but it’s still freezing out and Potter is decidedly warm. “Sorry for all that Potter. Very embarrassing of me,” he says, making no move to dislodge Potter’s arm from his shoulders.

Potter grins, jostling Draco a bit in a playful manner. “Don’t worry about it Emory. And please, it’s Harry.”

Draco hums and thinks it over, but something about calling him Harry is too intimate. “Hmm, no, I think I like Potter better,” he decides.

“You are unbelievable,” Potter laughs, shaking his head.

By this point they’ve left Diagon and have travelled down at least two other streets. The area here is residential, with cute little houses decorated with festive lights lining the street. They don’t look big enough to have backyard ice rinks. “Do you live here then?” he asks Potter.

Potter, for some reason, laughs. “Here?” He says. “No, I don’t. It’s the nearest ice rink that I know of, that’s all.” He pauses and looks around contemplatively. “It’s a nice area though,” he offers. “Very jolly.”

Draco smiles. “I like jolly,” he says, watching the lights of the nearest house twinkle. That, at least, has always been true. Granted, the décor at the Manor was far more extravagant than this, but he’s learnt to appreciate simple things too.

Potter is silent again, and when Draco looks up, it’s to green eyes smiling down at him. He looks away, flustered, and something glinting in the street ahead of them catches his eye.

“What-?” he begins, but as the shape draws nearer and resolves into an ethereal, silvery otter he realises what it is. A patronus.

“Harry!” It says urgently in Granger’s voice. Harry jerks to attention, startled.

“Hermione?” He asks, pulling his arm away from Draco’s shoulder and turning to address the otter. “What’s wrong?” Draco shivers, mourning the loss of Potter’s warmth, and turns to the otter also.

“Sorry to bother you,” says the otter contritely in Granger’s voice, “but Ron’s got a work emergency and Rosie fell of a table and hurt her leg. I have to take her to St. Mungo’s, but Walker’s is getting that new wool I wanted to get for Molly today and I’m afraid they’re going to sell out. I’m terribly sorry to ask, but can you please pick some up for me? Just a skein of each colour please.”

Potter groans. “Hermione, I’ve got plans!” He whispers furiously, shooting an apologetic glance toward Draco, who’s trying to keep from shivering in the cold air. It takes him a moment to process this, and then raises an eyebrow, shocked. Potter is blowing off his friends for him? He can’t help feeling strangely pleased at the notion.

Then another burst of wind gusts through his shitty coat, threatening to freeze his skin. Draco hifts from foot to foot and does his best to hold himself still. Without Potter against him to warm him, it is impossibly cold. The very idea of skating like this is unthinkable.

He touches Potter’s arm gently, hoping the other man doesn’t feel how he’s trembling, and says “Don’t worry if you need to go shopping Potter. The ice will be there tomorrow.” He hopes Potter agrees. He’d much rather chance that the weather will be warmer tomorrow. He doesn’t know how he’ll manage to get on the ice today.

Potter looks frustrated though. He opens his mouth and turns to look at Draco, and then frowns. He glances between Draco and the otter a couple of times, and then finally says “Alright Hermione, I’ll get the wool.”

The otter looks between them and says carefully, “I check if someone else is available.” Granger’s voice is loaded with something that Draco doesn’t understand, but it makes Potter snort.

“No Hermione, I said I’d do it,” he says.

The otter’s expression doesn’t change, but Draco can hear the relief in Granger’s voice as she says “Thanks Harry. And you too…Emory, was it?” Then it swirls in a circle and disappears. Draco, trying to hold in his shivers, takes a moment to wrap his head around the fact that Granger apparently knows his fake name. That can only mean that Potter’s talked about him to her. He peers over at Potter, who’s face is flaming red and who is looking anywhere but at him, and the earlier pleased feeling comes back to him.

He doesn’t call Potter out on it, though, because he quite frankly wants to get out of the cold as soon as possible. He’s disappointed that they’re parting ways so soon, but he feels as though he’s going to freeze his bollocks off if he stands out here for much longer. “I’ll meet you tomorrow, same time?” He offers to Potter, already turning to head back.

Potter catches his hand, though, and, instead of agreeing, says “Come with me.” Draco looks down at where their hands are intertwined, his face exploding with heat and his words abandoning him. When he doesn’t answer quickly enough, Potter adds, “I’ll get you a hot chocolate to make it up to you?”

Draco looks up then. Potter seems intent on plying him with free food and drink, and he’s not willing to turn them down when he gets them so rarely. “Okay,” he says, his voice unsteady from the cold.

Potter rocks back on his heels with a wide, stunning grin. “Brilliant,” he says. Unfortunately, he doesn’t through his arm over Draco’s shoulders again, and Draco bites down on his lip as another cold gust hits him. He follows behind Potter, hoping that the wool store is nearby.

He must not hide his shivering very well, though, because Potter after a little while Potter turns to him. “Okay, you’re clearly cold,” he says, his dark brows furrowing with concern.

“I’m fine,” says Draco, and shivers.

Potter rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he says. “We’re not going to the ice anymore. Why not cast a warming charm?”

Draco flushes, embarrassed. He doesn’t want Potter to know how pathetic he is, having not even a wand to his name. But Potter is looking at him expectantly.

“I…uh…I don’t have my wand on me,” he hedges, mind racing.

“What? Why not?” Potter asks with a frown. He looks around, as if Draco’s wand will just appear in front of him.

“Well…I’m trying to learn wandless magic so…” Draco fibs. “To encourage myself to use it, I…left my wand at home.” Potter stares at him incredulously, and Draco worries for a moment that he’s going to call him out on his ridiculous story. What wizard just leaves their wand at home?

Potter raises his brows. “I thought it was just an interest?” He challenges.

Draco nods. “Yes,” he decides on, not elaborating further. He and Potter stare at each other for a moment longer, and finally Potter laughs.

“You’re a strange one Emory,” he says.

“I take offense to that,” Draco sniffs, and then shivers again.

Potter frowns. “Can you not cast a warming charm wandlessly though? Surely you didn’t leave your wand behind without being able to do it in this weather.” He asks.

Draco bristles at his tone, although Potter is not wrong – if Draco had a wand, he would never leave it behind on so cold a day unless he knew with absolute certainty that he could keep himself warm. “I’m still learning Potter,” he replies. “I could try casting one, but I certainly wouldn’t want to cause an international incident by accidentally setting fire to your hair.”

Potter is still frowning, but his lips twitch slightly. “Merlin Emory, that’s a bit dramatic,” he says. He waves his wand carelessly. “But don’t worry about it. I’ve been set alight more times than I can count – job hazard, you know? I’m very handy with an extinguishing spell. Go ahead.”

He seems almost eager. Draco sighs. He’s cold, and he doesn’t want to argue with Potter. “Very well. I shall accept no complaints if something goes awry,” he says. Potter just nods encouragingly.

Draco closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, focusing on his magic. The motions are at once familiar and new as he reaches down into the well deep inside himself and draws some forth, shaping and tuning it. He holds the form, with more ease now than he had even just this morning, and draws more magic to his command. His brows furrow in concentration as he holds the first shape and pushes the additional magic through the suspended spell, giving substance to the charm.

To his surprise, the air around him immediately warms. His and Potter’s breath both catch in tandem and he opens his eyes to meet the other man’s intense gaze, the warm glow of magic fading between them. Then the air starts cooling again, the heat dissipating into the open street.

Draco flushes and looks down at his ratty boots. “I – ah – haven’t really learnt self-contained spells yet,” he mutters, embarrassed.

“That was amazing,” Potter says, his voice awed. A wave of warmth settles over Draco, and he looks up, surprised. “Until you master self-contained spells,” Potter says with a wink, putting away his wand. Draco’s cheeks heat further, and he tucks his face into the collar of his coat to hide the silly smile spreading across his face.

The shop that has Granger’s wool turns out to be back on Diagon. It’s one of the new storefronts, a small building called “Walker’s Enchanted Fabrics”. It’s warm and cozy inside, and smells of new fabric in the most delightful way. Draco lets Potter get on with his errand and wanders through the various displays of fabric and wool skeins. He’s drawn to a midnight blue bolt, the fabric shot through with an icy white-blue that twinkles like stars. It’s soft to his touch, like silk, and Draco feels a melancholy ache somewhere in his chest as he runs his hand down it. It’s the type of fabric he would absolutely have coveted once upon a time, the kind that his father would have commissioned the finest of robes from at Draco’s demand.

“It suits you,” says a voice from behind him, and Draco jolts. He turns to see Potter standing there with a large, lumpy parcel in his gloved hands. He’s smiling warmly at Draco. “Do you sew?”

Draco chuckles lightly, pushing down the bittersweet memories as he pulls his hand back and tucks it into his pocket. “Oh no,” he says. “I’m terribly undomesticated Potter. I manage to boil water well enough, and you simply cannot expect more of me than that.”

Potter lets out a delighted laugh. “Well, as _lovely_ as boiled water sounds,” he says, “how about we get that hot chocolate I promised you instead?”

Draco agrees wholeheartedly, and he follows Potter out of the store. “What is the story with this wool then?” He asks as they walk. “Surely Granger could get them to hold it for her? Being a great important war hero and all”

Potter laughs. “It’s a new blend, very high in demand. This is the only shop in Britain that carries it, because it’s so bloody expensive, but Hermione and the owner… don’t exactly get along.” Draco raises an eyebrow, curious as to what Granger has possibly done. “Hermione took very public umbrage to Walker’s use of Sicilian Silk Bat silk,” Potter explains. “It’s lucky any of us are allowed in here at all.”

Draco laughs. “What in the name of sorcery is her objection to Sicilian Silk Bats?” He asks.

Harry shrugs. “There was an overharvesting problem for a while apparently. The bats weren’t being left enough silk or something. I don’t really know the specifics.”

“Potter,” Draco sighs, shaking his head, “if you’re to be banished from stores on Granger’s account, surely you ought at least to know why?” Potter shrugs, unrepentant.

They go to the coffee shop from the other day, and Potter pulls open the door for Draco once more. He thanks him, smiling to himself as he walks in. Potter follows him in and sends Draco to get a seat again – even though the café is still empty – while he goes up to the front counter.

Draco watches as he chats with the girl at the til and hems and haws over what he wants to buy and drops his money all over the counter, and feels unbearably fond. He can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, not even when Potter turns around, floating another pair of frothy chocolate monstrosities and two huge cinnamon buns along with him, and sees it. “What is it?” he asks.

Draco shakes his head. “You keep feeding me sweets. I think you’re trying to make me fat,” he fusses jokingly, while eagerly tearing off a piece of cinnamon bun.

“You got me,” says Potter. “My original plan was a house of candy, but this seemed easier.” Draco has no idea what he’s talking about, but Potter’s smile is bright and directed only at him and he finds that he doesn’t mind. Twinging with happy warmth, he pops the bit of torn-off cinnamon bun in his mouth and lets out a pleased hum, closing his eyes at the delicious flavour.

When he opens them again, Potter is watching him with his impossibly warm green eyes.

Draco ducks his head, smiling into his hot chocolate. He could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little detour, but we'll get to the ice-skating soon!  
> This is the last of what I had written during vacation, so things will definitely slow down now sorry


	7. Day 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry go ice-skating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway there! I wrote soo many words of absolutely nothing lmaoo

**December 14 th , 2007**

To his great disappointment, the next day does not come with a change in weather. “Merlin’s great ugly hairy ballsack,” he grumbles, glaring balefully at the dark window. He’s woken before the sun. Again.

There’s no use laying in bed though, so he gets up and takes his two-minute shower, pouting at the weather conspiring to ruin his day ice-skating for the second time in a row. He tugs on his clothes and then frowns down at his thin, raggedy coat. Maybe he can transfigure it into something warmer.

But no, it takes skill to have a transfigured object retain its new properties for any significant length of time, and transfiguration is more difficult to do wandless besides.

Hoping fervently that the sun brings with it some warmth, Draco leaves the bathroom and approaches his little kitchen corner. He looks at the stove critically – he is going skating later, which will use up energy, but he also ate yesterday. He waffles for a moment, drumming his fingers on his little folding table, but decides against it. He’s probably going to have to beg off early due to the cold anyhow. Food can wait for tomorrow.

There’s nothing to hang around the flat for, and he’ll have to cast a heating charm if he does besides, so he steps out into the hallway and jams his door shut again. It’s very early still – the sun has not yet risen – and Knockturn is empty but for those few straggling to or from work and the usual selection of shady characters who quite go away.

These twilight hours are beautiful, and if it wasn’t for the horrid cold Draco would slow down to appreciate the early morning stillness. As it is, he hurries along the familiar path, out of Knockturn and into the properly deserted Diagon. The street twinkles serenely, decorative lights throwing glittering sparkles onto the snow. It makes Draco’s breath catch, and he finds himself irrationally wondering if Potter has ever seen Diagon like this.

Where has that come from? He shakes away the thought with a frown. It must be because they’ve been spending so much time together, he reasons. It’s only natural that he think of Potter’s company when he wants to share something. He absolutely refuses to believe that he’s getting attached to the charming git.

The library is only just opening when he arrives and the librarian seems surprised to see him, but smiles and greets him warmly anyway. “My, my, you’re here bright and early,” she says. “Come on in, it’s terribly cold out there.”

Draco blinks, surprised by the change in their daily routine of one-to-two word greetings, but returns her smile. “Thank you,” he says gratefully, stepping into the warm building.

“Don’t worry about it dear,” she replies, patting him on the arm. She totters off, disappearing behind her counter. Draco watches after her, and wonders if she was the same librarian who had worked here when he’d come as a child. He’d never paid attention to those whom he’d considered ‘the help’ back then. Merlin, but he’d been a brat.

Draco makes his way over to the wandless magic section, where he takes his time perusing the volumes. The one he’s been using has dissolved mostly into practice and examples, which are useful but for which he has no time. As long as he knows the theory, he’s confident that he’ll be able to figure out other spells given enough time.

He picks out a slightly older but more advanced tome and returns to his armchair. This book is more concerned with theory than the last, and it goes into the differences that must be accounted for with different branches of magic. It’s incredibly tediously worded, but the concepts are fascinating, and Draco is more than happy to sink into it for a few hours.

He doesn’t allow himself to fall asleep this time – he has no desire to embarrass himself in front of Potter again – so whenever he feels himself drifting off, he takes a walk out into the little side street and entertains himself by trying out some of the new notions that he’s learning. These excursions never last too long, because it’s still bloody freezing out there, but he’s cold-woken and newly eager to delve further into his study when he returns.

It’s after one such excursion, once he’s back to pouring over his book, that a shadow suddenly falls across the cramped text on the page. He glances up, expecting it to be Potter arrived early, but to his surprise it’s the librarian standing there, her wrinkled old face smiling at him over a steaming teacup.

“Hi dear,” she says, “just coming by to see if you’d like a cup of tea?”

Draco eyes the cup warily. She’s trying to sell him tea? He cannot deny that it’s an appealing thought – he’s still shivering from the chill of being outside, and the caffeine would be welcome – but he doesn’t have that kind of money to spare.

“Erm…no thank you,” he says regretfully. The old lady shrugs good-naturedly.

“If you change your mind just let me know,” she says, and totters off. Draco looks after her retreating back and wonders when libraries have started selling tea. He’s certainly never received such an offer from a librarian before, though he’s spent a lot of time in libraries.

Potter shows up at one o-clock today, striding determinedly into the little alcove and then faltering when he sees Draco. He laughs. “Beat me to it huh?” He says. “Are you that eager to see me?” He waggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and Draco snorts.

“Yes Potter, I live my life ardently awaiting the next time I get to see you,” he drawls, before closing his book primly. “I come here to study, as you know.”

Potter laughs. “Right, our wandless savant. How could I forget?”

Draco feels a blush rising up his cheeks and frowns. “I’m hardly a savant,” he argues. There’s no way for Potter to know that he’s been working on this for around seven years now, he supposes, but he doesn’t feel comfortable with the description.

“Right, no, of course,” says Potter, scratching at the back of his head. He shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot, before he asks, “Shall we get going then?”

“Yes, let’s,” says Draco. He rises gracefully from his seat, then turns to smirk at Potter as a thought occurs to him. “By the way Potter, it did not escape my notice that you’ve come here an hour early. I wonder if it isn’t you who’s eager to see me?”

Potter sputters, his face rapidly reddening, and Draco can’t help but chuckle at his incredulous expression as he goes to shelf his book. Still, he wonders just how fond Potter is becoming of him. It makes him feel guilty – after all, Potter would want nothing to do with him if he knew who he was.

He shakes away the self-reproach after a moment. It’s not as though he’s seeking Potter out or forcing his company on him. Isn’t it worse at this point to start blowing Potter off now, to his face? Surely it’s kinder for Emory to just disappear one day.

It still doesn’t feel right, though, and the easy smile on Potter’s handsome face when he returns to the other man makes his stomach twist with shame. He frowns and resolves to kindly rebuff any future invites from Potter.

“What’s the matter?” asks Potter, his brow crinkling with worry as he catches sight of Draco. Draco forces a smile and shakes his head.

“No need to worry, I’m perfectly fine.” He says. “Shall we go?”

Potter raises his eyebrows, but lets it go with a “Sure,” before following Draco to the door. A pleasant warmth falls over Draco as they leave, and a glance at Potter shows the other man putting away his wand.

“Thanks,” he mutters, his smile turning more real at the show of consideration. Potter grins back at him.

“No problem,” he says, leaning closer and bumping Draco with his shoulder.

Draco blushes at the press of his sturdy shoulder and shoves back at Potter, playful, but also putting a bit more distance between them. It backfires, however, because then Potter laughs and throws an arm over his shoulders.

“Get off you great oaf, you’re heavy,” he complains dramatically, shrugging Potter’s arm off. Potter gasps in mock offence.

“Are you calling me fat?” He asks.

Draco scoffs. “I’m not _blind_ ,” he says. He pokes at Potter’s chest, and yeah, it’s just as solid as it looks. Draco is reminded sharply of just how long it’s been since he’s been with someone, and his face flames. He rapidly backpedals and turns away to march ahead down the street. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches an infuriatingly smug grin on Potter’s face.

“Don’t go getting cocky Potter,” he warns over his shoulder.

He can hear the laughter in Potter’s voice when he replies, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They walk down the same streets as they had yesterday, and Potter directs him to a charming little park that looks like something out of a picture book, all strung up with lights that twinkle against the snow and alive with people. The ice rink is a main feature, at least in winter, occupying a place of honour right at the centre. It’s surrounded by benches and a couple of tiny warming huts, and there’s a stand selling beverages and warm treats off to one side.

Potter comes to a stop and turns to him. “I – um – I got you something,” he says, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. He pulls a little box out of his coat and flicks his wand, unshrinking it. It’s long and silver, sparkling prettily and wrapped with a bow. Potter is furiously red as he offers it to Draco. “Think of it as an early Christmas present.”

Draco looks at it, slightly panicked. Are they exchanging gifts? Is that what they’re doing?

“I didn’t get you anything,” he says uncertainly, making no move to take the box.

Potter snorts a short laugh and shoves it further toward him. “I know Emory. I didn’t expect you to. Just open it?”

He frowns but takes the box and looks at it dubiously. Potter is practically bouncing on his heels now, so he takes it to a nearby bench and sits down, setting it on his lap so that he can undo the bow. With one final look at an eagerly grinning Potter, he lifts the lid and the thin paper layer that lays directly on top, and his breath catches.

It’s a new coat, black and thick looking. When he lifts it out of the box, it falls long and heavy and surely down to his knees at the very least. In the box underneath it is a new hat, scarf, socks, and fur-lined gloves. Draco looks at Potter, slack-jawed and completely speechless.

Potter begins to look sheepish. “We can’t use warming charms on the ice,” he says, scratching the back of his head nervously, “I figured if we’re going to go skating, you’ll need a warmer kit.”

Draco frowns. It’s absolutely sweet of Potter to do this...but his pride stings. “I don’t need your pity Potter,” he mumbles, his face flushing with embarrassment.

Potter’s eyes widen, and he brings his hands up in front of him placatingly. “It’s not pity, I swear!” He says. “It’s kind of self-serving, actually. I wanted to spend more time out on the ice that’s all. Like I said, think of it as an early Christmas present.”

His eyes are guileless under Draco’s searching gaze and, after a moment, Draco sighs. “Very well. In that case…thank you,” he says stiffly.

Potter beams, bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet. “No problem,” he says. “Are you going to put it on?”

Still pink-cheeked, Draco rolls his eyes fondly. “I may as well, seeing as you’ve gone to all this trouble,” he says. He stands from the bench and holds up the new coat. It’s certainly not large enough to go over his current coat so, with some regret, he slips off his own raggedy little garment and folds it neatly. He has no love for the coat, nor is he cold thanks to Potter’s warming charm, but he feels somehow more vulnerable in front of Potter with his overlarge shirt that he knows makes him look smaller by comparison.

Potter is watching him, of course, with those intense eyes of his, and Draco’s sure that the pink is stained onto his cheeks permanently by this point. He quickly slides his arms into the new coat and pulls it closed around him. The first thing he notices is that the coat has a built-in warming charm, and he looks up at Potter with shock. Potter just smiles unabashedly back at him, as though this is normal.

Draco’s head is spinning. For a charm to be built into a garment and not fade as the magic wears away, it has to be woven into the fabric itself. To properly make such a coat, the charm has to be applied continuously throughout the creation process. It’s finicky, time-consuming, and very, very expensive. “Potter, this is far too much,” he protests.

Potter, the complete arse, lies through his teeth. “It’s not,” he insists. “It was barely anything, honestly.”

Draco stares. “You are a horrid liar!” He accuses. There’s no way that this coat cost less than 500 Galleons. “I can’t possibly accept this.” Potter frowns.

“Well it isn’t going to fit me,” he says stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Draco sternly.

Draco is completely boggled. “You’re serious” he says disbelievingly.

Potter comes up to him, frowning, and takes his hand. “Look Emory. It’s really no more than I do for any of my other friends. Please, it’s not a big deal.”

Draco looks down at where Potter’s hand curls around his, hesitant. He remembers the days when he could throw money like this around, like it was nothing. He knows that, for Potter, this is little more than a drop in the bucket. But still, to him it’s not nothing. It’s significant. It’s bloody lifechanging. He’d be a fool to turn it down.

Draco sighs, and swallows his pride. “Thank you,” he says quietly, looking back up at Potter.

Potter smiles. “It’s my pleasure,” he says. His eyes are very green, and very, very intense, warm as they meet Draco’s own. Draco flushes again and looks down, breaking his gaze. His fingers fumble, unusually graceless as he does up the buttons and slips of his threadbare gloves, making sure to tug down his sleeves to prevent the Mark from showing. The new gloves are not charmed, but they are fur-lined and unbelievably soft.

Potter moves closer still, taking the hat and scarf from the box.

“Let me,” he says, draping the scarf about Draco’s neck and sliding the toque over his hair. Draco looks up at him, eyes wide, and Potter meets his gaze steadily. His cheeks are flushed red against his bronzed skin, his hair thick and tousled, and those lovely green eyes are bright, reflecting the warm yellow lights that decorate the park. Draco feels his heart skip and he quickly looks away, cheeks reddening.

“Let’s go then,” he mutters, turning back to the rink.

Potter joins him after a moment, enthusiasm visibly growing on his face as they approach the ice. “I haven’t skated in forever,” he says, charming their shoes to skates with the wave of a want. “Fair warning, though – I’m pants at it.”

Potter is not lying. He is, in fact, pants at it. Draco is wobbly when he first steps out onto the ice, his skating skills rusty from disuse, but Potter is almost tragically off-balance. Draco catches his arm to steady him before he falls on his arse, laughing slightly at the way Potter clutches at him. He’s beginning to wonder if Potter has ever been on the ice at all.

“Potter, why in Merlin’s name did you want to come ice-skating?” He asks.

Potter flushes red. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he says, allowing Draco to steady him with hands on Potter’s waist. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dropping to something more intimate, “It’s not so bad when you’re here to help me.”

Draco blushes, but meets his eyes steadily. Potter’s gaze is dark and intense, and Draco feels an answering heat burning in his gut. This is too dangerous. Abort, he has to abort.

He pulls back, letting go of Potter’s waist and catching his strong hands instead. At Potter’s raised eyebrows, Draco smirks. “I can’t in good conscience allow the Saviour of the Wizarding World to continually be bested by some ice, can I?” He asks. Potter groans.

“Don’t call me that,” he protests half-heartedly, but he allows Draco to take his hands, clinging on for dear life.

“Alright, alright,” Draco concedes. He frowns thoughtfully. He is a decent skater, but no kind of teacher. He thinks back to his first time on ice, when his father had tried to teach his impatient arse. “Let’s take this slow Potter. Don’t try to glide or anything. Just…move like a penguin.”

He lets go of Potter to demonstrate. Potter watches closely, then reaches for him and clutches his arm nervously as he imitates his steps. Draco gives him gentle corrections (“Open your toes Potter”, “No don’t _walk_ , shift your weight, like this”, “Don’t put your heel down like that, you’re going to fall!”), and Potter furrows his brows and follows along with more concentration that this necessarily warrants.

It’s somewhat slow going, but the way that Potter’s eyes light up as he manages to travel a few paces without the threat of wiping out makes it entirely worth it to Draco. “That’s right, just like that,” he encourages. “You make a half-decent penguin, Potter.” He pauses and grins, and Potter throws him a dirty look.

“Don’t,” he warns, but Draco only laughs.

“Penguin Potter,” he repeats. “Has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’ll kill you,” Potter groans, dropping his head forward. Then he almost stumbles, and clings to Draco with fresh vigour.

Draco hums, steadying him gently. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make an appointment,” he says. “I’m very busy you see.”

Potter raises his eyebrows and grins. “Are you?” He asks. “You don’t seem all that busy right now.”

“I am, as a matter of fact,” Draco says primly. “I’m helping a penguin with two left feet. It’s very noble of me.”

Potter smacks him on the shoulder. “Arse!” He laughs. “Teach me something else then, I’m done being a penguin.”

Draco sighs dramatically, but obligingly moves in front of Potter and takes his hands. “If I must,” he says. He directs Potter into doing short glides, skating along backwards in front of him. Potter picks this up faster, getting the hang of being on ice now, but then nearly bowls Draco over when Draco stops.

“I thought we agreed that we were not going to kill me,” he objects, smacking Potter’s shoulder. Potter looks sheepish.

“Sorry, I didn’t know how to stop,” he says.

Draco flushes. “Oh…right,” he mutters. “Okay, to stop you turn your toes inward and sort of push out…like this.” He skates a bit away from Potter and demonstrates.

Potter tries gliding toward him and stopping, and nearly falls over again. Draco catches him, laughing. “Allow me,” he says, taking Potter’s hands again. “we’ll continue like this until you get the hang of it, alright?”

“Yeah,” says Potter eagerly. He skates toward Draco and almost falls on him again.

Potter takes a lot longer to get this right. He keeps stopping too harshly and nearly falling on Draco. It’s only once Draco starts complaining about Potter’s considerable weight – though he’s not actually that upset, he’s gotten his hands all over those muscles during the past little while– and threating to drop Potter on his arse that they start making progress.

It’s more fun that Draco expects, teaching Potter. He’s never been a great teacher, always impatient and tetchy, but having Potter’s incredible body draped all over him every time Potter doesn’t succeed is great motivation for him to put up with it.

They get Potter stopping consistently, and also performing a passable swizzle before he begs off, declaring that he needs a rest. Draco helps him along to a bench, but he returns to the ice. He hasn’t been skating in forever, and he isn’t going to waste a moment of it sitting on his arse.

He can’t play around the way he had when he was a kid – the pond they’d used as a rink had been on their property and was thus empty, whereas this public ice was somewhat busy – but he can still enjoy himself. He skates fast, just relishing in the movement and sense of freedom it brings for a few laps before he starts showing off for Potter as he skates by, doing lunges and turns, emboldened as he gets the hang of skating again. It ends with him landing on his arse after trying an ill-advised jump, and the sight of Potter cracking up over on the bench has him laughing too.

“I’d like to see you do better!” he calls, making his way over to the git. Potter grins at him in response.

“Give me a couple of years and I’ll take you up on that,” he says cheekily.

Draco blinks. “Bold of you to assume I’ll be waiting around for two years on your skating abilities,” he says, but his cheeks are flushed. Potter, after a moment, goes red as well, and there’s a beat of awkward silence between them.

“Come back out,” Draco says, just to break it, and Potter grasps his outstretched hand and pulls himself to his feet.

“Only if you teach me how to do all that?” he bids easily.

“What, fall on your arse?” Draco asks, cocking an eyebrow. “I’m afraid you don’t need my help for that Potter. You’re a deft hand.”

“And you’re an arse,” returns Potter around a grin. “Come on, show me how to do the turns like that!”

“Do you always ask for favours with an insult?” Draco wonders. “No wonder you’re being banned from stores.”

“I do,” says Potter seriously. “You should have seen Robards’ face when I went up to him and asked, I’d like to take my vacation now you ugly bastard.”

Draco lets out a snort of laughter before he can stop himself, and Potter gives a victorious smile. They’re back on the ice by now, so Draco takes pity on Potter and starts by showing him some more basics.

They never get anywhere near twirls, because as soon as Potter masters push-and-gliding with any decent speed, he immediately challenges Draco to a race. Draco laughs in his face at his overconfidence.

“You’re on Potter,” he says, and darts off. Potter, to his credit, doesn’t try and outdo his own abilities and by the time Draco’s coming up behind him he’s made it a quarter way around the rink and hasn’t fallen down yet.

He glides past Potter, spinning to skate backwards in front of him and smirking. “It seems I’ve bested you Potter,” he says. Potter doesn’t seem too put out – he’s sporting a huge grin as he skates along.

“I’ll catch you yet,” he says playfully. Draco smirks and curls his finger at his chin as if in thought.

“Is this also in two years?” He asks. “Shall I make an appointment?”

Potter growls and lunges for him, but Draco twists out of the way with a laugh. “You’ll have to try harder than that,” he teases.

Potter huffs and drops his arms. “Alright, I know when I’m beat,” he grumbles.

Draco preens. “Ah, to have bested a penguin,” he says dramatically. “Truly, there is no greater hon- ack!” He wiggles away just in time as Potter grabs at him again. Potter is grinning deviously. “Ah, he’s being sneaky!” Draco says with a smirk. “I thought you Gryffindors were supposed to be the upright, honest sort,”

Potter laughs. “Maybe that’s what we want you to think,” he says. He’s tucked his hands back into his pockets now, and Draco watches him carefully, worried that he might misbalance and fall without them. Potter has proven rather uncoordinated on the ice.

“Potter, if your grand plan is to fall over and make me catch you so that you may grab me, rest assured that I will let you fall,” he warns. Potter blinks, and then breaks out into laughter.

“That’s terribly cold of you!” He says cheerfully. Draco scowls distrustingly, but Potter is just skating along with a smile now. Then, something hits the back of his legs and he falls, yelping. Potter is immediately there to catch him, and he’s got a self-satisfied smirk on. Draco stares at him, wide-eyed, before the familiarity of the earlier feeling hits him.

“Did you just use a Tripping Jinx on me?” He accuses.

Potter smirks, unrepentant. “I caught you,” he points out.

Draco stares, incredulous. “By _cheating!_ ” he protests. Potter smirks some more and then, quite abruptly, dips him.

“I got my prize, though, didn’t I?” He asks quietly in Draco’s ear. Draco doesn’t answer, too busy clinging to Potter for dear life to even feel flustered at Potter being so close.

“Don’t you dare drop me!” He shrieks, and Potter laughs.

“I won’t drop you,” he assures, but then he tries to straighten them and loses his balance, and they both fall both into the snowbank that edges this portion of the ice.

“Oops,” says Potter sheepishly, sitting up and shaking snow out of his hair. There’s still plenty caught in the thick thatch, though, and he just looks ridiculous.

“You are unbelievable,” Draco says, shaking his head in wonder. Potter looks too smug at that, so Draco throws a handful of snow at him. While he indignantly sputters, Draco scrambles up and back onto the ice, zipping away from where Potter is also struggling to his feet with a bellow of challenge.

They play a little game of cat and mouse for a while, if the mouse were taunting the cat by darting around him just out of reach, until Potter gets worn out and returns to his bench. Draco skates up to him, cocking his head to the side.

“Are you ready to go then?” he asks. Potter leans back on the bench and shakes his head, waving a hand in the general direction of the ice.

“You can keep skating,” he says. “I’m just taking a little breather. You do more of your fancy tricks, they were fun.”

Draco laughs. “I’m all out I’m afraid. I’m no pro unfortunately.” But he goes back to the ice. He skates a few more laps, and then tries again to impress Potter with tricks and fancy footwork. He won’t say he that he’s entirely successful, but Potter is laughing and smiling brightly, and Draco’s having immense fun, so he’s not complaining.

Eventually Potter joins him again, and they skate along peacefully, side-by-side. Potter is still giddy about skating under his own power and keeps interrupting his own Auror stories to coax Draco to show him how to do something Draco had done while showing off to him.

Draco’s interrupted sleep and lack of food is getting to him by this point – he’s been fooling around rather too energetically, and it’s not as though he’s in peak physical condition. He pushes through, though, not quite willing to stop what is, all considered, a pleasant evening. It’s only once he thinks he’s ready to collapse from exhaustion that he admits defeat.

“You should have said so sooner!” Exclaims a very dismayed Potter once he catches sight of Draco’s trembling legs. The stumble off the ice together and Potter charms their shoes back to normal before, without warning, picks Draco up in a princess lift.

“P-Potter, what are you doing?” Draco yelps, clinging to the other man’s shoulders tightly. Potter grins.

“Taking you to get hot chocolate,” he says cheerily, striding assuredly along. The ease with which he carries Draco is staggering, and it makes his mouth a little dry to think about. He can feel every shift in Potter’s muscles as he’s carried, past the benches and warming huts and food stands and–

“Potter, we’ve passed the hot chocolate stand,” he says.

“I know a better place,” Potter says. “It’s outside the park, so it’s a bit further away, but it’s worth it, trust me.”

Draco blinks up at him, then nods. He does trust Potter. He squirms, vying to get down, but Potter just tightens his grip and holds fast. Draco wrinkles his brow at him.

“Surely you don’t mean to carry me the entire way there,” he says.

Potter laughs. “Of course,” he replies, as though it’s inconceivable that he won’t want to carry a grown man all the way to wherever they are going. Potter carries him as though he weighs nothing, though, and so Draco tips his head forward to rest it against Potter’s collarbone to hide the heat on his face.

“You’re bloody barking,” he mutters, and Potter’s chest rumbles with laughter. He can’t deny, though, that it’s nice. It occurs to him that Potter is recreating the childhood routine Draco had told him about as best he can, and it’s so impossibly sweet that Draco actually groans.

“You okay?” Potter asks, voice full of concern.

Draco nestles in further, refusing to look at him. “’M fine,” he mumbles. “Thanks Potter.”

Potter swallows. “I – uh – no thanks necessary,” he stutters. Draco does blink up at him then, and Potter’s face is bright red.

“Are you getting tired? I can walk,” he offers, but somehow he knows that that’s not the case. He doesn’t want to examine it too closely, however. He’ll just be reminded of what a truly terrible idea this all is. He should not be here with Potter.

Potter smiles at him so tenderly, and says, “Don’t worry Emory. I’ve got you.”, and Draco’s insides warm impossibly.

“You really do,” he mutters to himself. This is a terrible idea, but he can’t bring himself to pull away.

Potter takes him to a tidy little alley behind the park, which turns out to house another entrance to Muggle London. The alley on the Muggle side is tiny and holds rubbish bins, but opens out onto a massive, bustling street, surrounded by large, mostly square buildings. It hums with the Muggle lights that line the street and shine from windows and storefronts. Even the Muggle version of Christmas lights emit the sound.

Although it’s late, the Muggle street is still terribly busy with their automobiles, the kind that haven’t been charmed to dodge between obstacles nor to have obstacles dodge around them. They make Draco anxious – he’d nearly been hit by them, once, when he’d wandered beyond his lonely little street with its park and corner store. The vehicle had swerved around him at the last moment, and then the driver had leaned out the window and very angrily threatened to shrink him.

Draco clings closer to Potter and eyes the racing vehicles nervously, glad that Potter doesn’t seem inclined to put him down. Potter glances down at him, and his green eyes dance in amusement even as he says, “Sorry, I should have warned you it was in Muggle London. It can be a bit overwhelming the first time.”

“I’ve been to Muggle London before,” Draco replies, indignant. He doesn’t mention that the vast majority of his trips have been to one mostly empty street.

“Ah, sorry,” Potter says contritely. He sets Draco to his feet and gestures at a nearby door. “Here we are,” he says.

Draco follows him in, looking around curiously. The shop is small and cramped, with high tables scattered throughout. It’s busy, buzzing with chatter and yet more Muggle lights. There is more holiday décor here, bows and shiny garlands and a tall, skinny, tree wedged in a corner and laden with decorations. A wireless in the ceiling is playing Muggle music. _“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,”_ opines the Muggle singer in a deep, rich voice. Draco smiles. It sure is.

“Save us a table,” says Potter as he joins the large queue waiting at the counter. Draco winds his way through the little shop, finding an empty two-top near a window at the back. He quickly snags a seat and turns to watch the brightly-lit Muggle street curiously.

Muggle vehicles race along the street, their lights leaving bright streaks when Draco blinks. Bundled up Muggles walk by, mostly alone or in pairs. They usually stay out of the road but deftly avoid the vehicles when they do cross. Many of them have small boxes that emit a small square of light, and they hold these up to their ears or poke at their lower half intently.

Draco watches with interest a moment longer, then glances around the café. Many of the Muggles here have the little glow-boxes as well, although some have much larger ones that open like a book – albeit not all the way – that they’ve set on their tables. Draco catches sight of the glowy part of one of these that is faced toward him, and it is projecting what appears to be a moving photograph, although it does not loop. Maybe a portrait? If so, it’s very realistically rendered.

He watches curiously as a handsome dark-haired man yells at a pretty dark-haired woman. They don’t seem to get along. Draco feels terrible for them being trapped in that portrait together. He wonders if the subject of Muggle portraits can move between pictures as well. Maybe one of them should escape to another device.

Draco looks around at the many boxes they could jump to, and his eyes meet with a young woman who’s holding her small box up with the non-glowing side facing him, right as he hears the familiar sound of a camera shutter. Ah, so the small boxes are cameras. Strangely shaped, though.

He blinks, while the girl, who’d apparently been trying to discreetly take his picture, turns red and slides her box shut in a rush. She then studiously avoids looking at him at all.

Draco self-consciously tugs his hat lower. What is she getting his picture for? Could she be an undercover Auror who has somehow recognized him? But no…she’s not familiar to him. He doesn’t see how she would be able to recognize him on sight without him at least doing the same. Maybe he’s just dressed funny for a Muggle and she wants to laugh at it later. He doesn’t think so, based on what he sees them wearing, but who knows what the unifying Muggle theme is?

Potter, thankfully, takes that moment to return. He’s laden with two enormous mugs of the most ridiculous hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and crushed candy canes and chocolate chips and syrup, as well as a plate of biscuits. “Sorry I took so long,” he says, setting one of the drinks down in front of Draco.

“Potter…what monstrosity is this?” he asks, looking at the concoction in front of him. Potter shrugs, sheepish.

“I didn’t know what you liked so I got…everything?” he says. Draco gives him an incredulous look, but gamely takes a sip. It’s ridiculous, absolutely, and he shouldn’t like it… but it’s warm and sweet and, underneath the pile of toppings, actually has a lovely flavour. Besides, Draco has always had a horrid sweet-tooth.

“Thanks Potter,” he says, allowing a small smile onto his face. Potter grins hugely back at him and slurps at his own drink.

They settle into a cozy sort of quiet, just enjoying one another’s company. Potter hums along with the wireless, and Draco alternates between peeking glances at him and gazing around the café. At length, he catches sight of another Muggle putting his little camera box to his ear, and frowns.

“Potter,” he mutters. Potter looks up from where he’s crunching on a biscuit and tilts his head in question. Draco gestures at the Muggle. “They all take pictures of their ears. Is it a Muggle thing?”

“Sorry?” asks Potter, sounding utterly bewildered. Maybe Draco’s overestimated his knowledge of the Muggle world. But he has seemed very at ease so far.

He points a little less discreetly at the Muggle, who thankfully doesn’t notice. He’s talking to the air about what presents to get for someone named ‘Gracie’. “That camera, he’s got it at his ear. And not just him. I saw many Muggles doing that.” He leans forward. “Are ears important to Muggles?”

Potter goggles at him. “Are…what? Ears – Yeah, of course they are…I mean- no more so than ours are to us! But…Emory, those are not cameras. They’re cell-phones.” He’s looking at Draco as though he’s grown a second head. Draco frowns.

“Well, what is a ‘sell-fone’ then?” He asks, taking a biscuit.

“It’s…Merlin-” Potter flounders, “it’s like an owl?”

“An owl?” Draco repeats with a frown. “No, I’m certain it’s a camera. I heard it, when that Muggle girl took a picture of me.” He bites into the biscuit. It’s absolutely delicious – rich and buttery and sweet. He hums appreciatively. “Merlin, Potter, these are incredible.”

Potter is frowning. “Someone took a picture of you?” He repeats, ignoring the biscuits. Draco nods, turning slightly in his seat to find the girl and point her out to Potter. To his surprise, she’s watching him again. As Draco looks at her, she goes red and ducks her head down.

“Her,” he says with a confused frown. Potter starts laughing.

“Aww, I think she has a crush on you,” he says gleefully. His voice is free of the cruel mocking that Draco’s friends would have carried in school. Plenty of people had crushes on him then, and he supposes the behaviour matches, but…

“What on Earth for?” He asks, frowning. He knows what he looks like – he’s seen himself just this morning in the mirror. There is nothing attractive left about him.

Potter blinks at him. “Are you serious?” He says.

Draco flushes. Ah, Potter doesn’t like self-deprecation. He ought to have known, really. Potter is too much of a goody-goody to accept people talking down on themselves like that.

He decides to change the subject before Potter decides to try and convince Draco of some ‘unique beauty’ he possesses. “Well, in the event that she does, she’s plum out of luck I’m afraid,” he mutters. “She’s not quite my type.”

“Oh?” Potter raises his eyebrows. “What is your type then.”

 _You,_ Draco thinks. He flushes. “Decidedly more…masculine,” he says, feeling the flash of nervousness that always accompanies telling someone of his preferences. It’s a remnant from his childhood, when his father had taken him aside and told him kindly but firmly that what he does in the bedroom is his business, but he must be discreet if they are to arrange a good marriage for him.

Potter sits up straight. “Oh,” he says, his face lighting up. “That’s…brilliant. Me too, actually. Well, both really, but you know…” Ah. Draco has suspected, but never confirmed. Another piece of the puzzle Draco’s been firmly ignoring clicks into place.

“Oh…” he echoes quietly, his cheeks pinking again. Potter seems to have released some previously imperceptible tension, and he has a quiet confidence about him as he leans back in his seat and smiles at Draco. Draco returns the smile, then ducks his head to hide his blush and busies himself with his hot chocolate.

 _“All I want for Christmas is you!”_ Sings the Muggle on the wireless, and it rings in Draco’s chest. He peers up at Potter through his lashes – the other man is humming along, happily stirring his drink with a candy cane and then sticking it into his mouth, and the realization trickles down his spine, slow and warm like treacle, that he’s maybe falling a little bit in love.

He’s absolutely bloody screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have problem with tone sometimes aaaa

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I stole Nugskin from Dragon Age :P
> 
> Twitter: @AngstChronicles  
> Tumblr: the-angst-chronicles  
> FF.NET: The-Angst-Chronicles


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